


Miracle Year

by Chase820



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst and Humor, Erotica, F/M, M/M, Origins, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-04-28
Updated: 2014-10-05
Packaged: 2017-11-04 10:50:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 63
Words: 317,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/393018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chase820/pseuds/Chase820
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the story of how Sherlock became Sherlock and John became John, long before either knew there would ever be a Sherlock <i>and</i> John.  This is the story of how their relationship began, with all its silent negotiations and quiet denials.  This is the story of how the silence came apart after the Reichenbach fall.  This is the story of how Sherlock returned from the fall, and how he and John put things back together again, in quite a different way than before.  This is also the story of Mycroft and Sherrinford--we all know that third Holmes brother is out there somewhere--and also other canon characters, though some have changed a bit since Sir Arthur's day.</p><p>This is a story about loneliness and fate.  This is a story about parents and brothers.  This is a story about cocaine and Shepherd's Pie.  This is a story about London, and Los Angeles, and Afghanistan.  This is a story about love.  Also, sex.  There's quite a lot of that.  This is a story with a happy ending, though at times it will make you sad.</p><p>This is the Sherlock and John story I've been wanting to tell for a very long time.  I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I have enjoyed writing it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Sexual intercourse began_  
 _In nineteen sixty-three_  
 _(which was rather late for me)_ -  
 _Between the end of the "Chatterley" ban_  
 _And the Beatles' first LP._

_Up to then there'd only been_  
 _A sort of bargaining,_  
 _A wrangle for the ring,_  
 _A shame that started at sixteen_  
 _And spread to everything._

_Then all at once the quarrel sank:_  
 _Everyone felt the same,_  
 _And every life became_  
 _A brilliant breaking of the bank,_  
 _A quite unlosable game._

_So life was never better than_  
 _In nineteen sixty-three_  
 _(Though just too late for me) -_  
 _Between the end of the "Chatterley" ban_  
 _And the Beatles' first LP._

_—Philip Larkin, “Annus Mirabilis”_  


  


****

** BOOK ONE: 1993-2008 **

  


* * *

  


**  
John, 1993  
**

Looked at upside down, Toby’s _Clockwork Orange_ poster is even more disturbing than right side up: a giant V with a fist punching through it, bisected by a razor-pointed dagger. Three staring eyes—Alex’s fake-eyelashed leer and one more, disembodied and perfectly round, echoing the O in _Orange._ Even upside down on the bed, John can read the caption on the poster. _Being the adventures of a young man whose principle interests are rape, ultra-violence and Beethoven._

“Fucking morbid,” John mutters, and inhales deeply. He passes the spliff to Toby.

Even stoned silly on some excellent Chronic, Toby can read John’s mind. It’s not any particular compliment to their friendship, Toby does it with everybody. More to John than to anybody, but only because he spends more time with John than with the others.

“Fucking brilliant,” Toby says, exhaling smoke. “The triangle and the eye? Illuminati symbols. But Alex is slashing _through_ them. Bloody well sticks it to the man every chance he gets, doesn’t he? Mind you, I’m not advocating ultraviolence, but Kubrick has a point. All his movies are full of references to conspiracy theories, webs of power that go straight up to the tippy-top. I’ll show you _Dr. Strangelove_ some time, and _2001._ It’s why old Stanley had to leave America and come here. He was getting death threats. The Powers That Be don’t like it when you call them out on their shit. Of course, Britain’s not any better. Why do you think Alex and his droogs wear bowler hats, like all the proper English gentlemen? The whole fucking system is corrupt.”

“Anarchy is our only option,” John says. “Safety pins through the nose, rioting in the streets. Right now—let’s go.”

Toby stretches his long arms. “Can’t, mate. Too fucking baked.” He turns his head, looking at John. His grey eyes are bigger and wider than the disembodied one on the poster. Rather redder. 

“Part of the conspiracy,” John says. “Flood the youth of the UK with weed. Keep us docile.”

“Clever,” Toby says. “Diabolically clever. One has to admire the ruthlessness.”

“And the weed,” John says. “This is seriously good shit.”

“Thank you,” Toby says. He tilts his head back, looking at a skull poster hung next to smirking Alex DeLarge. The skull grins back. 

_“Respice post te. Hominem te esse memento. Memento mori,”_ he whispers.

“What the bloody fuck?”

“It’s Latin. _Look behind you. Remember that you are but a man. Remember that you will die._ When a Roman general won a major victory over the barbarian hordes, they gave him a big party and a parade. He was essentially elected a god for the day. During the parade a servant would whisper those sentences in his ear, I suppose to make sure he didn’t get too far above himself. The senators hated it when one of their own got too powerful. It’s why they offed Julius Caesar. Conspiracies again: I suppose all empires have them.”

Toby takes another hit, then stubs out the joint. “People used to think about death all the time. That poster is a _memento mori:_ See the flower and the hourglass on either side of the skull? They’re remembrances that things don’t last. Time fades every flower. ‘Gather ye rosebuds while ye may’ is not just a pretty verse. Pick some posies, fuck your lover, because you’ll both be wormfood soon enough. Sooner than _that,_ if the Powers That Be have their way.”

Toby will go on like this for hours if you let him. Skipping from point to point, reference to obscure reference, like some manic mad librarian. He never does it at school, of course: His survival instincts are too keen. He is very good at reading people, especially those likely to beat him to a pulp for showing off. At school it’s footie and pop music, jokes and pints and belching contests. Toby reads everyone; he talks this way only to John. A kind of secret between them. 

It’s not the only one.

Toby turns onto his side. His naked flesh is paler than the white sheets puddled around them. He is so very pale, porcelain skin and silvery eyes and silky flaxen hair. He’s a bit taller than John but much more slender, as slender as a girl. Pretty as one, John sometimes thinks. 

But Toby is all boy, for all that he looks so fragile. A mean little fucker on the football field, sneaky and ruthless. Before you know it he’s tripped you up, got you flat on your back, staring at him sweaty and dazed. John knows to watch out for him now. He wasn’t so careful three months ago. Not the first time Toby got him on his back, but the first time John enjoyed it.

Toby reaches out, touching John’s face. His fingers are like the rest of him, long and slender and white. They trace John’s profile, pausing to tickle him under his chin. He smiles when he sees John smile, and when he does you can see the striking man he’s going to be. Not just pretty but really handsome, once he fills out a bit. John won’t be like that, even at 18 he knows it. He’ll have to settle for smart, perhaps, or interesting. Toby seems to find him so, anyway.

Toby’s clever fingers wend their way down John’s torso. The touch is as light as a feather, a little cool, as Toby’s touch almost always is. Cool and white as marble, but there is heat beneath it. Or maybe the heat is John’s, that heavy warmth pooling in his belly, as Toby’s hand makes the muscles of John’s abdomen twitch in a really interesting way.

Just to be clear: John is not gay. But he’s not handsome, either, and the ladies aren’t exactly breaking down his door. Before Toby tackled him, sometimes John thought he would go mad with it, the need to touch, grasp hold; to be touched and grasped in return. John likes how girls feel, their soft curves and secret wet places. He can remember Jenny so vividly, the last girl who let him touch her. He can feel her breast in his hand, the sweet giving weight of it, warmer and realer than any memory should be. He can still get hard from it. But memory is just memory in the end. And here is Toby, right here and now. Toby, who loves to touch and grasp and suck and fuck, as much as he likes spouting cryptic bullshit.

As if reading John’s mind again, Toby pushes the sheet down. He takes John’s cock in his hand. Toby is as practiced at this as he is at so many things—( _“Thirteen,_ John, since you’re wondering. Don’t be so shocked. You know I was always precocious.”) Toby grasps hold and John hardens at the touch, the warmth in his belly seems to radiate outwards, slide deliciously over all his skin, a thick sticky flood that you could drown in. It surprised him the first time Toby did this. Not just that Toby had the stones to do it, but that he, John, liked it so much. (Toby had known, of course: “You’ve been gagging for it for weeks now, mate. If I don’t take one for the team, you’ll be humping old Henderson on the rugby field. Can’t have that, can we?”) 

Toby kisses him. Gently at first, as gently as his fingers are teasing John’s cock. Then his tongue plunders John’s mouth, he tastes like weed and something darker, he’s all boy and this isn’t like kissing Jenny or Michelle or any of the other girls that John has kissed. It’s rough and it’s exciting, desperate and breathless, like tackling a mate during a really close match. It’s like kissing yourself, maybe, feeling beard burn and smelling the brassy aroma of young randy male. Having Toby touch you is like touching yourself, but it’s so much better. There’s something so immediate about this. Something so familiar, so _right_ about it. Like it’s something he’s been doing all his life. He could do it forever.

Maybe that’s what’s so fucking scary about it. 

John pulls back a little, breaking the kiss. “I like girls.” A stupid thing to say at such a moment, but he has to say it. He hopes that Toby, so clever and observant, will understand.

One corner of Toby’s mouth turns up. He pushes fine blond hair out of his eyes, which are sparkling with lust and amusement. “I like girls too,” he says. “I just don’t like fucking them.”

“How can you be so sure?” 

“Been doing this since I was 13, remember? Anyway, I did shag a girl once. I’d rather watch _Dr. Strangelove._ I’ve always known, John. I’m as gay as a maypole. But don’t tell Henderson. I’d like to keep my balls right where they are, thanks.”

“I don’t know,” John says. “I mean, I do. I’m not gay. What we’re doing, it’s just—” He stops. He doesn’t know what to say about it. He likes it, but he can’t like it too much. This is just fun. Just mates together: It doesn’t mean anything. Toby can be gay if he likes, he has the looks and brains to carry it off. John isn’t ugly or stupid, but he’s not Toby. 

“I’m not like you,” he says finally. “I—I don’t want to be.”

Toby looks at him a moment. “But you don’t want to stop, do you?” There’s an edge in his voice, one as sharp and silvery as his eyes. It could cut you, and it would hurt. John has seen Toby hurt people more than once. It’s not just his sense of humor and brutality on the football field that earns respect. Toby can be mean as hell: Even Henderson mostly leaves him alone. 

John isn’t scared of Toby. Toby has never used his sharp edges to cut John, though none of their other mates get spared. Toby tackled him ruthlessly, but he’s never hurt John. Not once.

“I don’t want to stop,” John whispers. “I don’t know what that makes me.”

Toby takes John’s face in his hands. His touch is very gentle. What it means—Toby’s gentleness with John, the _specialness_ of this—it’s even scarier than Toby’s sarcasm would be. Toby leans so close that John can feel his breath upon his face. Maybe it’s the weed or just the nearness of him, but John is suddenly dizzy, tumbling over and over, on his back in the wet grass staring up at the vault of a pale grey sky, the endless horizon of Toby’s gaze. Something so sad in it, as sad as the music on Toby’s stereo. Joy Division of course, no slick New Order electronica for him.

_People like you find it easy,_  
 _Naked to see,_  
 _Walking on air._  
 _Hunting by the rivers,_  
 _Through the streets, every corner_  
 _Abandoned too soon,_  
 _Set down with due care._  
 _Don't walk away in silence,_  
 _Don't walk away . . ._

“It makes you John,” Toby says. “That’s enough for now. Nothing lasts forever, love. Six months from now you’ll be in Birmingham and I’ll be in Manchester. Separate unis, separate lives. Don’t torture yourself! _Carpe diem_ and all that shit.” His tone is light, he gives John a smile. He gives _permission._ Not to think about this, not to be brave if he can’t be. If Toby is hurt by John’s cowardice, he doesn’t show it. He doesn’t make John pay for it, though he could.

“You are amazing,” John says. “I do know that.”

“My cock is amazing,” Toby says, raising an eyebrow. A fluid move and he’s on top of John, pressing him into the mattress. He slides against him, and John moans at the lovely friction of it. _“Memento Mori,_ fuck! Memento _Toby._ Birmingham ladies are going to have a lot to live up to.”

As it turns out, they absolutely do.


	2. Chapter 2

** Sherlock, 1998 **

Sherlock settles himself more comfortably on his suitcase, trying not to squint in the blinding sunlight. Through a real effort of will, he does not check his watch again. Around him people are walking briskly, hailing cabs or, in a few cases, sliding into limos. The rest stride into the embraces of friends and relatives (57 relatives and 48 friends, by Sherlock’s estimate, though the 48th might have been a second cousin, taking into account bone structure and similarity of gait). Lucky travelers, able to escape the shiny white chaos of LAX. While here Sherlock sits, has been sitting for an hour now, alone and 8000 miles from home. 

So far, this trip has not been going as planned. Though if he is honest with himself, he hadn’t formed a definite picture of Los Angeles when he boarded the plane at Heathrow 12 hours ago. He had vague visions of palm trees and tanned people in sunglasses, Ford’s amiable but hazy visage. Much clearer had been the look on Mycroft’s face, lips thin and eyes narrow at the news that his brother would not be spending the gap year teaching English in Nepal, or feeding chimps in South Africa, or even ferreting papers around the hoary, hallowed halls of Westminster. A year in LA working as a production assistant on one of Ford’s films: The glamor of it would have made Sherlock’s most privileged schoolmates blanch with envy, had he bothered to tell. 

Sherlock isn’t interested in glamor, and so far, California has not been that. Loud, sunny, over air-conditioned, reeking of fried foods and the thick citrus perfumes women here seem to favor, but not glamorous. Perhaps it’s unfair to judge a city entirely by its airport. Sherlock will try to take a more balanced view, should he ever have an opportunity to leave the sodding terminal. He’s called Ford twice in an attempt to make this happen, but no answer. He would take a cab to Ford’s home, but his brother neglected to give him the address. _I’ll meet you,_ he said. _Don’t worry so much, baby brother. You don’t want a face like Mycroft’s, do you?_

“Hey, Sherlock!” He realizes by the note of impatience in the voice that this is at least the third time his name has been called. He stands, flexing to dispel the cramps, and looks towards the voice. He has to squint again, impossible to avoid it. Gleam of sun on the white sports car the man is leaning against is enough to blind you. 

The man’s full red lips part in a grin, showing a set of teeth as white and shiny as the car. Grinning and gleaming, he walks towards Sherlock. He’s much more casual than his ride, dressed in tight jeans and a black t-shirt. He’s built much like the figure printed upon it, da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man. (Is wearing the shirt an act of narcissism or whimsy? Difficult to say at present.) There’s a silver chain around the man’s neck and a bracelet made of platinum links on his right wrist. He’s older than Sherlock but not by much, early twenties at most, and his deep blue eyes, when he removes his sunglasses, are as wide as a child’s. Not so innocent, though, for all their pellucid brilliance. Sherlock notices a few other details which he files away for future consideration. The most important is that the man is not his brother. 

“Sorry I’m late,” the man says. “Traffic was backed up on the 405 all the way to Sunset. This all your bags?” He bends to take Sherlock’s other, smaller suitcase, but Sherlock holds on.

“Where’s Ford?” he says.

“He was going to come, but he had a last-minute meeting in Burbank. I was at his place in the Hills, so I was closer anyway. Should be home by the time we get there, probably pissed off that we’re late. I don’t control the traffic gods, y’know? I could’ve pushed it, but if I smashed up his Porsche he’d have my ass, and not in the fun way.” He brushes dark blond hair out of his eyes and tilts his head at Sherlock. “I’m Victor, by the way. I’m Ford’s assistant, you’ll be seeing me a lot while you’re here. Ford’s never heard of a 40-hour work week. He tells me it isn’t how they do things in England, but I think he’s just being an asshole.” Before Sherlock can do more than blink: “Don’t get me wrong, Ford is awesome. I’ve learned tons already, and I’ve only been working for him a year. But you do _not_ want to get on his bad side. I’m sure you know all about that, right?”

Sherlock doesn’t, actually. Ford left England forever when he was 18, after one last screaming argument with Father. Before that he’d been immured at Eton along with Mycroft. Sherlock’s memories of his much-older brother mostly consist of a tall, whip-thin figure with hair forever in his face, skulking through the house on holiday breaks, leaving nights in the company of a dodgy and disreputable crowd who most certainly did not attend Eton. 

At home Ford had always been pleasant enough to Sherlock, but he was forever disappearing behind a closed bedroom door. From his room sensations would emerge—raucous music, the spicy smell of incense, and (when Father was not there) laughter and groans and, a few times, breathless moans. Those times Mycroft would emerge from his room, sleepy eyed but granite-lipped, and pull Sherlock away from the door, bundling him off to bed. From bed, Sherlock would hear more arguments, Mycroft sounding so much like Father as he dressed down their older brother. As a young boy, Sherlock did not understand many of the words—Mycroft and Ford always argued in French—but the tone was exactly the same as Siger’s.

“—go?”

Sherlock comes back from the past with a start. “What?” he says.

“I said, are you ready to go?” 

Sherlock feels himself color. His perceptions really aren’t what they should be today. He gives a jerky nod. Victor claps him on the shoulder in a companionable way.

“Hey, don’t worry about it. Jetlag is such a bitch. When Ford and I came back from Sydney in March, swear to Christ I was seeing visions. Fifteen fucking hours in coach will do that. Ford said first class wasn’t much better, and I told him he could switch with me next time if he was so sure. He said if I last another year with him, he’ll upgrade me. Nice idea, but he’ll probably work me to death before that can happen. LA is the only place in America where indentured servitude is still legal.” Victor sighs. “Guess everybody has to pay their dues, huh? I mean, unless the director’s your big brother.” 

Sherlock scans Victor quickly. His tone is sarcastic but his expression remains good-natured. His posture is not aggressive, hands held loosely at his sides. He’s joking, then. More joking than not, at any rate. While Sherlock is computing this, Victor’s expression grows puzzled.

“You don’t talk much, huh? Sure you’re Ford’s brother?” He waves Sherlock towards the car. “Come on, Mute Boy, we’ve gotta get you home.” 

He grabs Sherlock’s smaller suitcase out of his hand and carries it to the car. He pops open the boot and shoves the bag inside, then motions for Sherlock to stow his other suitcase. Sherlock does, then goes to the passenger side of the car. He sees Victor smirk. Sherlock sighs and goes to what should be the driver’s side, but isn’t here in America. The door locks pop open, and he slides into an interior of butter-soft red leather, smelling richly of leather polish and a hint of something else, much less pleasant. He sits on the right side, feeling discombobulated. 

Victor gets in. “Buckle up,” he says. “It’s the law here. One cool thing: We can take the carpool lane. Maybe we won’t be so late after all. Good deal, I hate when Ford yells at me. The traffic _was_ backed up.”

“You can say that,” Sherlock says as he buckles. “Perhaps he’ll believe you, though I doubt it.”

“Huh?”

Sherlock turns his head, regarding Victor fully. “I don’t know my brother very well,” he says. “But one doesn’t become a director of multi-million dollar films at the age of 28 without some attention to detail. He will hear your story about traffic on the 405 coming from the Hollywood Hills and wonder why you have beach sand on your shoes. Perhaps he will see the receipt on the floor of his Porsche from a McDonalds in Santa Monica, time-stamped for today. He’ll notice the grease smears on your shirt and smell the stench of french-fry oil in his $70,000 car. Most damning, he’ll see the whitish spot on the front of your half-zipped jeans, and Ford will realize that rather than attending to business at home you snuck off for a nooner—quaint Americanism, _nooner_ —and became too involved in your tryst to remember your appointment at LAX. When you did remember you came as quickly as you could, pausing only to assuage your incredible post-coital hunger at the nearest fast-food restaurant. You probably took Lincoln Boulevard—I’ve only looked at the map of LA once, but I’m fairly certain Lincoln would be the logical route—and so arrived here, 60 minutes late.” Sherlock stops, breathless.

Victor bites his lip. He tilts his head to one side. “Man or woman?”

“What?”

“My nooner—man or woman?”

“Going by the rug burn on your forearms, man. I suppose it’s possible for a woman to take a man from behind, with the help of certain paraphernalia, but that would seem a bit too elaborate for a hurried assignation at noon on a Thursday.”

“Right. I can’t believe—” The words become a sigh. “Guess you are his brother, after all.”

“So,” Sherlock says, a coil of ire in his gut at having to ask, “Ford does pay attention to details.”

“Only in his movies. When it comes to those, he’d make Kubrick run screaming.” Victor pauses. “But he wouldn’t like to hear about the nooner. I _like_ my job, Sherlock. I want to make it to the first class seat.” He brushes hair out of his face, looking worried. “Are you going to tell?”

“No,” Sherlock says. Victor has been friendly. Louche and late but friendly, even after Sherlock exposed his deception. More friendly than Sherlock’s schoolmates ever were.

Victor releases a breath. “Thanks.” Then he leans closer, fixing Sherlock with his limpid gaze. His fingers stray to the crotch of his jeans. His fingernails are polished black but closely bitten, rather messy but somehow still appealing, like their owner. They play with the half-done zipper, toying with its silver slider. Is he going to right himself, or expose even more? 

In the end he does neither. He just keeps staring, his eyes wide and blue and not innocent at all. “Maybe I’ll do you a favor some time,” he says.

“Not necessary,” Sherlock says. He wants to pull away but knows there’s nowhere to go, unless he actually exits the car. He can’t turn back: It’s much too late for that.

“Hmm. We’ll see,” Victor says. He lets himself fall forward a little more—just enough to make Sherlock take a low sharp breath. Victor smirks and moves away, turning the key in the ignition. The car starts with the roar of a friendly jungle cat. Music blares like the voice of God from the Porsche’s powerful sound system.

_I'm not sick but I'm not well  
And I'm so hot ‘cause I'm in hell  
I'm not sick but I'm not well  
And it's a sin to live so well_

_“Bienvenido a_ Los Angeles,” Victor says. Sherlock slouches down on the posh leather seat as they pull away from the curb with a screaming squeal of tires.

* * *

Ford’s home is situated at the top of a steep and winding road, a flat box cut into the surrounding hillside. It matches the Porsche, gleaming white with large windows. The other car parked in the driveway is also white, a Maserati that probably cost twice as much as the Porsche. _This is his spare car,_ Sherlock thinks. Ford is obviously doing very well; Grandmother’s trust fund was generous, but that would have been spent long ago on fees for film school and living expenses. He certainly never had any help from Father. Siger cut his oldest son off without a penny the day Ford left for UCLA. The fascination with Hollywood might have been forgiven, but Ford’s final salvo, “And by the way, I’ve been sucking off the gardener’s boy for the past two years and it was bloody _brilliant,”_ could not be tolerated. Perhaps if Habib’s son had gone to Eton . . . 

As the Porsche pulls into the motor court the man himself emerges from the house, a tall figure dressed in a deep blue shirt and white trousers, white ostrich loafers on his sockless feet. 

When Sherlock emerges from the car he is instantly enfolded in an encompassing hug that smells of expensive lemony aftershave. “Baby brother,” Ford says. “I’d almost given up.”

Sherlock submits to the embrace: He’s too shocked to resist. He can count on one hand the number of times he’s touched Mycroft, and two of those are punches. He vaguely recollects Ford being more demonstrative, but never to this extent. Such is the influence of California.

Ford releases him. “Christ, you’re skinny! Don’t they feed you in England? What am I talking about, you’ve been at Eton, bland curries and treacly crumbles, of course you don’t eat. Suppose you’ll fit right in out here.” 

Ford is lean as well, though in the same sleek, muscular way as Victor. Sherlock’s brother is well-tended all over, with the glowing golden complexion only a sunny climate and perfect barbering can create. The haircut that makes his thick dark locks fall in that perfectly tousled manner must have cost more than everything Sherlock is wearing. He understands why Victor had trouble believing they’re brothers: It would be nearly impossible to identify this glossy creature as a Holmes, even discounting the name change. 

Unless you look in his eyes, of course. They are a deep color that isn’t quite blue and isn’t quite grey, but a steely combination of both. The exact same color as Mycroft’s. 

He turns them on Victor. “Late,” he snaps.

“Traffic,” Victor replies.

“405?”

“Yep,” Victor says, meeting that iron regard calmly. “Three-car collision, backed up all the way to Sunset. Check the traffic reports if you don’t believe me.”

“Of course I believe you,” Ford says with a winning smile. His teeth are whiter than Victor’s. “Did you read those scripts?”

“All but one. The notes are on your desk.”

__

_“Brave New World?”_

“Saved it for last. I skimmed the first few pages—it’s weird, Ford.”

“Of course it’s weird. Cousin Aldous was weird. The LSD on his deathbed? Totally true story. Get on it, yeah? Harvey’s becoming tetchy. I have to give him an answer by Friday.” 

“Sure.” Victor starts to walk towards the house, but Ford puts a hand on his arm. “Errands first: My phone is dead again.”

“That’s because you keep throwing it at walls.”

“Stupid walls. Go get me another one.”

“Maybe we should buy in bulk.”

__

_“Go.”_ Ford pushes him towards the car, giving him a swat on the posterior for emphasis.

“Harassment,” Victor pouts, rubbing the offended body part. But his eyes are twinkling.

“No such thing as sexual harassment in the movie business, love. You offer your ass up for sale just by going in.”

Victor sticks his tongue out and climbs back in the Porsche. He sketches them a wave and puts the car in reverse, spinning it around at ferocious speed. He’s soon gone in a cloud of gravel.

“Charming boy,” Ford says, looking after him. “Cheeky as hell but _smart._ Also, not unpleasant on the eyes.” Off Sherlock’s look: “Please, I’m not that desperate. But I enjoy a good-looking assistant. It’s like having a nice piece of art to carry around with you. I have the simplest tastes, Sherlock—I’m always satisfied with the best.” 

“Oscar Wilde,” Sherlock says automatically.

Ford puts an arm around him. “Good to know you learned something at Eton besides buggery.” He starts leading him towards the house.

“The bags—”

“Victor will bring them in when he gets back. I could let my housekeeper do it, but Vic should have had those scripts finished this morning. A bit of manual labor will do him good.”

They enter through the double front doors into a two-story great room, done all in white except for the floors, which are glossy black stone. A few pops of color relieve the excessive whiteness: bright pillows on the big white sectional sofa, a piece of abstract art over the hearth that looks like the doodling of a brilliant, disturbed child. Six feet tall and five feet wide, it’s a black and yellow graffiti skull with spiky hair, leering against a backdrop of orange and blue. The picture is repellently ugly at first, but seems to grow more fascinating the more you look at it. 

“Basquiat,” Ford says, following Sherlock’s gaze. “And yes, it’s real. Shouldn’t have been able to afford it—I’m not that famous yet. Cleaned up on Oscar bets this year, though. I told Quentin _Titanic_ would beat _LA Confidential._ It was _Forrest Gump_ vs. _Pulp Fiction_ all over again.”

Sherlock nods as if he knows what any of these nouns signify, including Basquiat. He allows Ford to lead him into the kitchen, a symphony in the same palette: black floors, white cabinets, steel countertops. Sherlock looks out the windows that take up most of the right-hand wall. He gazes over arid brown hillsides to the concrete canyons of the city below, the highway winding down like a serpent slithering towards Babylon. Maybe it’s jetlag, but he experiences a moment of profound dislocation. Impossible to believe that 15 hours ago he was in his room in London, with its blue-papered walls and scuffed Victorian furniture. 

“You look knackered. You should eat and then nap: best thing after a long trip.” Ford motions him to one of the island stools and opens the fridge. “Is sushi okay? There’s some left from last night, and it won’t keep another day. I’d order something in but we’re having company tonight. The caterers will be here in an hour, and I don’t want to get in their way.”

“You’re having a party?”

“Why not? Just the introduction to Los Angeles you need, much more interesting than Mann’s Chinese or the bloody Getty.” 

Sherlock would like to visit the Getty, and he opens his mouth to say so, but then Ford plops a tray in front of him. “You _do_ eat sushi?” he says.

“Yes, Ford. We are acquainted with sushi in London.”

“You sound exactly like Mycroft when you say that. Try the octopus.” 

Sherlock will eat any seafood that isn’t oysters. He picks up a tentacled morsel while Ford pours him some Evian. The octopus is excellent, chewy but not rubbery, flavored with citron vinegar. As he eats, the silence stretches between them. Before it can grow awkward, Ford speaks again. 

“I suppose Mycroft wasn’t happy about you coming out here?”

Sherlock shakes his head.

“But you came anyway. Why?” Ford’s features still have their studiedly insouciant expression, but his gaze is intent on Sherlock’s face.

Sherlock takes a moment to eat a bit of sinus-clearing ginger before answering. “It seemed more challenging than teaching English in Nepal.”

Ford bursts out laughing. “What?”

“At a monastery. Mycroft had it all planned out.”

“Good Lord.” Ford shakes his head. “Yes, I suppose Los Angeles is preferable to that.”

“The scenery would have been exquisite,” Sherlock points out. “The monks might have proved interesting company.”

“Wait until my party tonight,” Ford says. “I’ll show you scenery and company. But if you thought Nepal was so exquisite and interesting, the question remains: Why are you here?”

“Why did you invite me?”

“You’re my brother.”

“Whom you haven’t seen for 11 years.” He pauses a moment. “Not even when Father died.”

“I would have come,” Ford says, “but the Golden Globes were that weekend.” He smiles as he says it, but his eyes are cold. Colder than Mycroft’s were when he told Sherlock that their older brother wouldn’t be attending the services.

“I suppose,” Sherlock says, when he realizes Ford isn’t going to answer further, “I was curious.”

“You know what they say about curiosity and the cat,” Ford says. “But then, satisfaction did bring him back. We’ll have to see that you stay well satisfied, baby brother.” He gives Sherlock a conspiratorial wink.

Sherlock looks down at the sushi tray. “Yes. I—yes.” In the upper quadrant of his vision, he can see Ford tilt his head at him. Sherlock’s fingers tighten on his water glass. “You say that you’re going to be directing a film version of _Brave New World?”_ The transition is awkward at best, but it’s better than continuing down that other path of inquiry. 

If Ford notices the awkwardness, he’s gracious enough not to comment on it. “I didn’t say that, Harvey and Bob are saying that. I’m considering it. Quite a fascinating story, and it never has been done really well. A couple of bad made-for-TV movies, that’s all. I mean, Leonard Nimoy as Mustapha Mond? I don’t think so. Don’t get me wrong, I adore Spock, but this isn’t quite the same thing, is it? If done properly, _Brave New World_ could be my _Clockwork Orange._ It would make Mother so proud.”

Sherlock wouldn’t know what would and would not make Mother proud. His images of Violet are fragmentary, limited to a few brief visits and awkward meals, and those years ago. He hasn’t seen her since he was ten; he doesn’t miss her. Many children would be devastated at being torn from the maternal breast, but Sherlock doesn’t feel so. He has no memories of an intact family: The divorce happened when he was barely a year old, Violet banished to the wilds of Australia with her lover. The images most people conjure when the word _mother_ is spoken, memories good and bad, have no meaning for him, in the way that _sun_ means nothing to a man blind from birth. _Father,_ now, is a word which carries weight. He had two, which is at least one too many. 

He looks up at Ford, who’s studying him like Sherlock’s a very weird screenplay. 

“What a bloody time you must have had of it,” he says softly. “Poor baby brother.”

 _“Pity,”_ Sherlock says, stiffening. “That’s why you invited me?”

“I suspect that you are many things, Sherlock. Pitiful isn’t one of them. What you are, exactly, is an interesting question. I suppose I’m curious, too.”

Sherlock looks at him for a moment. “That’s what brought John Savage to London in _Brave New World,”_ he says. “Curiosity: Mustapha Mond’s ultimate social experiment. Is this an experiment, Sherrinford?”

“It’s an opportunity,” Ford says, looking a bit hurt. “If anybody is John Savage it’s _me._ I’m the one who took on the City of Angels at 18 with no support at all. Didn’t end up swinging by my neck from the rafters, either. Good Lord, can’t you accept the possibility that I’ve missed you? I know our family isn’t long on squishy confessions, but I don’t think it’s wrong to admit to that. If anybody knows what Eton must have been like for you, it’s me. Perhaps I want you to see that there are places in the world other than the Sceptered Isle. I know Mycroft certainly isn’t going to show them to you. And I think somewhere in that stony little heart of yours you’ve missed me, or you’d be meditating on a mountaintop in Nepal right now.” 

Ford sounds convincing—but then he is a very good actor, as all directors must be. Sherlock shakes himself inwardly. That’s exactly the sort of mistrustful reaction which Siger or Mycroft would have. Sherlock doesn’t know if he’s like Ford—he doesn’t know Ford. But he knows he doesn’t want to be like Father and Mycroft, forever looking at the world through narrowed eyes. 

He would explain all this to his brother, but the words seem to die on his lips. One of the things Holmes men do not talk about is feelings, provided they are inappropriate enough to have them in the first place. Whatever his aspirations, Sherlock, unlike Ford, is still a Holmes. So he just arranges his chopsticks neatly on his plate and says, “I’d like to rest now.”

“Sure,” Ford says. “Get plenty of rest, baby brother. ‘Buckle up, it’s going to be a bumpy ride.’ You get the reference? No? Ah well. We have plenty of time to complete your education.” 

He smiles at Sherlock like a cat. One that is very well satisfied.


	3. Chapter 3

** Sherlock, 1998 (cont.) **

Sherlock sits quite still on the sofa, staring at the skull. It really is fascinating: the barb-wire hair, the ill-matched eyes (one black/one red), the hash-marks and scrawled lines which lurk in the edges of the painting like shattered visions. Most fascinating is what lies inside the skull, behind his heterochromatic gaze and gaping yellow smile: total anarchy. But—and perhaps herein lies Basquiat’s genius—somehow there is order in the brown-blue-white-copper chaos. There is a definite shape to the seething mess; a message you might learn to read, if you could only capture it from the right angle. Or perhaps no message is the message, those not-letters at the painting’s edge signify the impossibility of truly saying anything to anyone, the ultimate emptiness of language. The skull tells you everything and nothing. He is eloquently mute.

“Very good,” Ford says. “Also, notice how well he matches the sofa cushions.”

Sherlock blinks and comes back. He hadn’t even realized he was speaking aloud to anyone until his brother answered. That never happens to him: Sherlock stopped expecting a listener long ago. 

“You didn’t buy the painting to match the cushions,” he says.

“It’s a sound investment. Most of Basquiat’s later work is too repetitive and self-referential. Heroin does tend to douse the flames of inspiration. The fires were still burning when he did this one, though. I thought Ms. Ciccone was going to tear my throat out with her teeth when I outbid her. Suppose it was a sentimental reaction: They did used to shag. She should be content with her Kahlos and Lempickas. Lesbian chic never has appealed to me.”

Sherlock turns his head to look at Ford. “You didn’t buy it for an investment.”

“No?” Ford is half-smiling.

“You bought it because you had to buy it. You would have, even without the money from your Oscar wager. If you had to sell the Porsche, the Maserati, this house—you’d have done so.”

Ford’s smile wavers by a quarter-inch, then goes full-wattage. “Clever baby brother,” he says. “But is this how you’re going to spend my party? All alone in the living room, contemplating my spendthrift ways? The action is out by the pool.”

“I had to get away,” Sherlock says. “The party is very—loud.”

“Sorry about that. Suppose I should have rescued you once Quentin started monologuing. I thought you would find him interesting, I believe his mind works a literal mile a minute. His mouth most certainly does.”

“You don’t like him,” Sherlock says. “You hide it well, but you don’t.”

 _“Clever.”_ The word doesn’t sound so much like a compliment now. “For what it’s worth, old Q doesn’t like me, either. We’re as jealous of each other as a pair of beauty queens.”

“Then why is he here?”

“My dear boy, mutual loathing is no bar to friendship. Not in Hollywood. Besides, I find him amusing—most of the time.”

“I don’t see what’s so—” Sherlock shakes his head, utterly confused. “Is it the foot fetish?”

_“What?”_

“Your rival, he has a foot fetish. Quite severe. I thought he was going to ravish that tall blonde in the jeweled sandals. It was very disturbing, the way he looked at her— _them._ I could bear the pressured speech, but not that. It’s why I came inside.”

Ford throws back his head and laughs. He laughs until he cries. It takes him two full minutes before he can speak again, wiping his flushed cheeks.

“Clever!” The word is definitely a compliment this time. “Oh, Sherlock. You can stay.”

Sherlock shifts his weight on his heels. “About that. I don’t believe this is going to work out. I looked up the flights on the computer, there’s one that leaves tomorrow afternoon at two. A last-minute booking will be quite expensive, but of course I’ll reimburse you once I’m home—”

“Fuck that,” Ford says, suddenly sounding very American. “You just got here. My god, talking to Quentin can’t be that traumatic, whatever his feelings towards some model’s Manolos.”

“No, but I don’t think—” Sherlock stops. “It’s all so strange.”

Ford grabs him by the shoulders. “Of course it’s strange! Strange is the _point._ This is my fault, I abandoned you this evening. It’s so easy to get distracted at these things. Come, I’ll take you around. Get a few drinks in you, you’ll be right as rain. Ever had a mojito? You’ll love them. Best thing out of Miami since Versace. Besides, if you give up now you’ll miss the surprise.”

“Surprise?”

“Yep. Not here yet—nothing is ever on time in LA. But you’ll love it— _them._ Any brother of mine would. Even Mycroft, I suspect.” Keeping one arm around Sherlock, he herds him back towards the double doors leading to the pool area.

Sherlock survives the next couple of hours by approaching them the way he did the painting: as a study in controlled entropy. Watching Ford move through the crowd is like watching a shark swim through ocean waters, a creature dangerously well-adapted to his environment. Sherlock is introduced to a disorienting number of tanned, cordial people in skimpy but expensive clothes. They are cordial, anyway, once they learn he’s Ford’s brother. Ford might not be so famous that he can easily afford Basquiat paintings, but he appears quite famous enough, the subject of many a copulatory gaze and lingering caress. Ford seems appreciative of these attentions, but he keeps his promise to stay by Sherlock’s side. His calm presence helps Sherlock navigate the choppy social seas. The liberal application of alcohol does as well; mojitos are wonderful, tart and sweet, no sooner does he get done with one before a waiter is handing him another.

After four or five drinks (normally he would have kept count, but the waiters are very brisk), he feels calm enough to let Ford drift off. His brother is deep in conversation with Harvey, a big brute of a man who looks at Ford with a gaze that, while not copulatory, certainly is expectant of some sort of consummation. Sherlock is standing at a little distance from them, contentedly contemplating the striking view from the pool area: Los Angeles at night, not a city of concrete now but one of light, a shimmering Shangri-La connected by highways of pure electricity. 

Drunk on rum and atmosphere, Sherlock can quietly endure the company of the man who comes up to him. A short but very intense man, with hypnotic green eyes. He speaks to Sherlock about dynamics and ethics and the Bridge to Total Freedom. 

When Ford joins them, he addresses the man first. “What are you saying to my poor brother? He looks quite bewildered.”

“He wants to audit me,” Sherlock says rather indistinctly—his fourth or fifth (or possibly sixth) mojito is three-quarters done. “It sounds rather interesting, actually.”

“It really is,” the man says. “If you come to the Center—”

“Oh, bugger off,” Ford cuts in. “Go get your thetans cleansed or something.”

The man’s handsome face remains friendly, as does his big white grin. But his eyes don’t smile. “Are you suppressing me?”

“I’m warning you,” Ford says. “You’re not getting your mitts on Sherlock’s engrams—or anything else of his, for that matter. I’ve still got the pictures, love. I’m not a porn star: You can’t pay me off.”

The man’s friendly mask collapses into a grimace of anger. He melts back into the crowd. Ford turns to Sherlock.

“Three rules to live by in LA, baby brother: Never let Michael watch your children, never let Charlie or Christian near your stash, and never, ever let Tom tell you about his religion.” Ford leans in close. “He’s a rotten lay, anyway. Power bottoms are _such_ a pain in the arse.”

Maybe it’s the way Ford says this, or the mojito in Sherlock’s hand. Maybe it’s the impotent rage on Tom’s face, or the amused complicity on Ford’s. Maybe it’s just _Ford._

Sherlock laughs. It bursts out of him before he can stop it, the sound rusty but unmistakable. Ford grins and kisses Sherlock’s cheek. He draws him close. 

_“There_ he is! I knew there was a real boy in there somewhere.” When Sherlock tries to pull back, Ford holds tight: “None of that. Everybody’s seen you talking to Tom, your reputation is already ruined. You can hug your brother all you like.” He squeezes him.

This won’t be the last time Sherlock is embraced during his stay in LA. But looking back upon it later, it is the most memorable. The most desired, perhaps, for all the other urges he will satisfy in the months to come. This is the consummation most devoutly wished. Satiating a hunger he has suffered all his life, the pangs of which he never felt until now. (Perhaps he did feel them—he did come to LA, after all.) 

Of course, Sherlock doesn’t fully process what’s happening at the moment it happens. He just knows he suddenly feels good—warm. It’s twelve o’clock at night, but it’s as if the California sun is shining down on him. 

Ford pulls back, looking into Sherlock’s face. “Yes. I think you’re ready for the surprise now.” He plucks the mojito out of Sherlock’s hand and places it on one of the concrete planters. Then he takes him by the wrist and leads him through the crowd. 

They enter the house through a side door Sherlock hasn’t seen before. But once they’re through, he recognizes the staircase off the kitchen. The one that leads to the bedrooms upstairs. 

At the bottom of the stairs, Ford catches the arm of Justin, his housekeeper, a handsome Asian man dressed in black. “They ready?” Ford asks. “I said ten, which for them means twelve.”

“They’re ready.” Justin looks amused about something. “Is he?”

“Of course. He’s my brother,” Ford replies. He points Sherlock towards the stairs.

The upstairs of the house is divided into rooms arranged along a single long corridor. At the end of the corridor is Ford’s bedroom and bath. Next to that is his private study. There’s a hall bath nearer the stairs, and across from that the guest bedroom. When they enter it, the room is much like it was when Sherlock rose from his nap a few hours ago: a large airy space with 12-foot ceilings and the expected black floors and white walls. A big platform bed dominates the center of the room, partially obscured by gauzy curtains hung from a large silver ring suspended from above. The bed is made of snowy white lacquer, its linens also white except for a few artfully scattered red and pink accent pillows. Above the bed is a giant canvas wall hanging, a blow-up of an album Sherlock remembers seeing in Ford’s bedroom in London years ago. It features the Union Jack with Elizabeth II superimposed on top of it, her eyes and mouth torn out and replaced with words-- _Sex Pistols: God Save the Queen._

“Father always did believe in keeping a portrait of Her Majesty somewhere in the house,” Ford said this afternoon, when Sherlock first saw the room and stood for a moment, staring.

Normally, the hanging would be the most striking sight in the space. But not tonight. The bed hangings have been half-pulled back. Arranged on the bed, as artfully as the throw pillows, are two young women. As Ford and Sherlock enter they look up, their plump glossy lips parting in identical welcoming smiles. Everything about them, in fact, is identical: the short-cropped auburn hair, the flower-like faces lightly dusted with freckles, the pale and lissome limbs clad in miniscule spangled gowns of electric blue. As the girls rise from the bed, Sherlock realizes that the gowns are not just sequined but transparent. They are wearing nothing but the wispiest of flesh-colored knickers underneath. In the cold blue light of the room he can see every curve of their slender bodies: the subtle flare of hip, the smooth plane of belly, the flash of pink nipples on delicate teacup breasts. The girls approach him, and in their large amber-brown eyes he sees not only welcome but intent. They fix on him like a pair of hungry young lionesses.

“Hello,” the first girl says. “I’m Violet.”

“I’m Alice,” the second girl says. 

“We’re twins,” the girls say together, quite unnecessarily. They stop not 18 inches away. So close, he should be able to see everything about them. His eyes dart over ankles, wrists, ears, fingernails. (And breasts: He keeps coming back to those.) He knows the details are there but he can’t seem to process. He may as well be looking at two dolls fresh from their plastic boxes. 

“Surprise!” Ford says.

“Are they—” Sherlock’s voice breaks. He stops and tries again. _“Are they prostitutes?”_ He speaks in French, trying to maintain some semblance of manners even as his mind goes into gridlock. Of course Violet and Alice don’t speak any foreign languages: They’re American.

 _“Even better,”_ Ford replies, also in French. _“They’re actresses.”_

“What did he say?” Violet’s perfectly arched brows have drawn together. “Is that French?”

“I thought Ford said his brother was English,” Alice says, looking confused. 

“Shut up, Ali,” Violet says. 

“Ladies, ladies,” Ford says. “Let’s not fight. My brother was saying how gorgeous the two of you are. He’s never seen anything like it before. They don’t grow them like you back home.” 

Alice preens. Violet fixes Sherlock with her wide leonine stare. “Is that really what you said?” 

_You’re the dominant twin,_ Sherlock thinks, his mind clearing a little. _It’s not just the words. You have red nails, Alice has pink. But her left thumb has a red splotch on it. You made her change colors. Your hair is a quarter-inch longer—you cut it first, she copied you. You’re smarter than she is, more ambitious. You hate the fact that she looks just like you, because of what it means for your career. You hate her, but judging by the personal space between you—no space—that’s not all you feel. You’re trying to focus on me but your eyes keep darting to Ford. He’s the one you want to impress, and I can guess why. You don’t mind that he asked you to come and shag his brother. You’d do more than that for a chance at a real role. What an interesting creature you are, Violet. Your last name isn’t Hunter, I imagine. But it should be._

This is what Sherlock thinks. What he says is: “Uh.” 

Violet snakes one finger down his cheek. “Cute,” she says. “Great bones.” Her hand goes lower, tickling the hollow of his throat. Sherlock just gapes.

“Why doesn’t he say anything?” Ali says. “He’s not retarded, is he?”

“God, _shut up,_ Ali,” Violet says. She gives Sherlock an encouraging smile. “It’s okay, honey. You don’t have to talk. I can think of something else to do with that mouth.” Her teasing hand finds the waistband of Sherlock’s trousers. With surprising strength she pulls him close. 

Suddenly Sherlock is suffocated by a cloud of heavy floral perfume, the taste of cherry lip gloss, and a small, darting tongue in his mouth. The sensations are not bad but they are _overwhelming,_ and they seem to last forever. When she lets him go he sags against the wall, chest heaving. The world seems to have tilted 90 degrees, perhaps it’s the mojitos but he doesn’t think so. 

“Well,” Ford says. “That looks promising. I’ll leave you young folks to it.” He starts for the hallway, but Sherlock catches his wrist like a drowning sailor clutching a rope.

 _“Sherrinford,”_ he half-screams. 

His brother whirls around. Sherlock just looks at him. Violet’s assault has left him unable to speak. Even if it hadn’t, he couldn’t have confessed this, perhaps not to anyone, certainly not in front of the twins. So he puts everything into his eyes. He is desperately, eloquently mute.

“Ladies,” Ford says, after a minute. “Would you excuse us?”

“What’s wrong?” Ali says. “Did we do something wrong?”

“Come on, Ali,” Violet says, grabbing her sister’s wrist. “Let’s go to the bathroom.” She couldn’t have seen as much as Ford did—she’s not a Holmes—but she saw enough. 

Soon Sherlock and Ford are alone.

“Never?” Ford says.

Sherlock shakes his head.

“When you were 16, Father didn’t take you to—” Ford stops. “He was ill by then, wasn’t he? I suppose it slipped his mind.” Ford considers. “You went to Eton. Lots of shenanigans there. You must have at least snogged a mate or two.”

“What mates?” Sherlock rasps.

“Right,” Ford says. “So—nothing? Not even a kiss?”

Sherlock takes a breath. “Not until two minutes ago.”

“Christ.” Ford runs hands through his hair, marring its artful tousles. He leans against the wall, mirroring Sherlock’s weary posture. “Sorry, mate. Wouldn’t have thrown you in the deep end if I’d known—” He stops, looking gobsmacked. “Really? _Never?”_

“No,” Sherlock says through gritted teeth. 

“Well,” Ford says. “No time like the present, is there? Vi and Ali are good-natured girls, and they’re old hands at this. They’ll steer you round the hard curves. I’ll just speak to Vi a sec—”

 _“No,”_ Sherlock says. “That’s not what I want.” 

“You’re 18,” Ford says. “You must want something. Tell me what it is.” 

Sherlock wishes for one of his bursts of eloquence, but they never seem to come upon him when he really needs them. The times he’s thought about it—and there have been times, though the actual event seemed improbable to the point of absurdity—this isn’t how he pictured it. Violet and Alice are lovely—especially Violet. But for this time, the very first time, that’s not enough. Dim little Ali was right: She and Vi are wrong. Wrong attitude, wrong faces, wrong _bodies._

It should be easy enough to explain to his brother—Ford, of all people, should understand. But Sherlock can’t. And not even Ford is perspicacious enough to read all this from a sullen stare. What’s to be done? 

“Hey, Ford? The script’s finished. I’m taking off.” 

Sherlock looks up. He sees the body silhouetted in his bedroom doorway. Tall, lean, broad-shouldered, clad in tight jeans and a tighter t-shirt. His memory suddenly conjures up an image, so brilliant it’s almost three-dimensional: black-polished, close-bitten nails playing with the slide of a shiny zipper. A gesture both eloquently mute and devastatingly erotic. Exposing nothing, but promising everything. It was enough to make one totally and humiliatingly aroused, if one weren’t careful. Ten hours ago Sherlock had been very careful, but he can’t be that way now. He’s too drunk and too confused, still tasting Violet’s lip gloss. 

Looking at the figure in the doorway, Sherlock gives a single strangled gasp. But it’s enough.

“I’m a fucking idiot,” Ford says. He puts an arm around Sherlock, steadying him. 

“Victor,” he says. “Come here.”

Victor obeys, but with a low sigh. “Can’t it wait? It’s like midnight.” He stops a short distance away. Even from several feet, Sherlock can smell him. A lovely smell, better than any perfume: a little sweaty, a lot musky. All boy.

“Just one more thing,” Ford says. “Don’t worry, this is an errand I think you’ll enjoy.” He gives Victor his winning smile. “I want you to be nice to my baby brother.”

“I’m always nice,” Victor says.

Ford looks at him like he’s as stupid as Alice. “Very nice.”

Victor looks at Sherlock, his open features momentarily unreadable. “Ah.”

“Not necessary,” Sherlock says, feeling his face flush. “Ford, I don’t—”

“You do,” Ford says. 

“But I can’t just—”

“You can. Don’t be a twat.” Sherlock opens his mouth to protest, and Ford throws up his hands in exasperation. Then he takes Sherlock by both shoulders. When he speaks again, it’s French.

 _“Don’t you get it, you stupid boy? This isn’t England. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you since you came here. All your life, Sherlock, a world made of no, not, don’t, can’t. I’m offering you the opposite. Short of stringing someone up by their entrails, there are no limits here. I’m opening up that fucking box Siger and Mycroft shoved you into when you were 12 months old. Here you can do what you want. This is the world of yes. Isn’t that why you came? To hear that one, simple, beautiful word? Yes, you can drink yourself sick on mojitos. Yes, you can have that pretty boy over there, you can have all the pretty boys. The pretty girls too, if the fancy takes you. Yes, Sherlock, fucking YES. Do you understand what I’m saying?”_ Ford’s voice has dropped to a whisper. Sherlock has never seen him look so serious about anything in his life. 

Sherlock looks down. He is silent a minute, feeling Ford’s words echo inside him. They seem to echo all the way to the center of his brain, in a language more eloquent than French. The voice of his own thoughts, speaking in a private vernacular he’s been hearing since the day he was born. Always unpronounceable but never silent, with a million unspoken questions and demands. It’s the voice which sent him here, 8000 miles from home. 

He looks up at his brother. “Yes,” he says.

Ford smiles, one more genuine than any Sherlock has seen on his face before. “Well, then. You know what to do.” He gives Sherlock a gentle shove towards the bed. 

On his way out Ford stops, whispering in Victor’s ear. He squeezes Victor’s hand. Then he goes.

Victor approaches the bed, pulling his shirt off. The blue lights reflect on every line of his finely muscled torso. Da Vinci’s perfect man, rendered not in faded sepia inks but in real, living flesh. Sherlock swallows and sits down on the bed. He doesn’t quite trust his knees.

“Well,” Victor says, climbing over the bench at the end of the bed and sitting by Sherlock. His posture is casual, leaning back on his hands, which only further calls attention to his wonderfully defined arms. Nothing in his body language is nervous. Of course it isn’t: He’s done all this before. He’s been doing it for years, like every other normal teenager.

Sherlock feels himself flush again. “We don’t have to do this. My brother can’t fire you.”

“Sure he can,” Victor says. “But that’s not why I’m doing it.”

“Then why?”

“Looked in a mirror lately, Sherlock? You’re fucking _cute._ I can’t believe you haven’t done this before. The boys at Eton are idiots.” 

Sherlock has no arguments there. “At your school, were they—” He cuts off as Victor suddenly darts forward on the bed. He stops only an inch or two away from Sherlock’s face. He can feel Victor’s breath on his cheek. The brassy, beautiful scent of pure boy is intoxicating.

“We can talk later,” Victor says. “I really, really want to kiss you right now.” And he does.

At first it’s rather lovely. Right, in a way that it wasn’t with Violet. Victor’s big hands are on Sherlock’s face, holding him close as he explores Sherlock’s mouth. Victor smells like oranges and musk and tastes vaguely of clove, and _that’s_ lovely. After a few minutes hands are sliding under Sherlock’s shirt; soon he’s as half-naked as Victor and it’s fine, the slide of skin on skin is delicious, so good that for once Sherlock is able to enjoy the moment, dial back his maddening brain and just revel. But then Victor is plucking at the waistband of Sherlock’s trousers, he’s biting at Sherlock’s throat as his fingers undo Sherlock’s zipper, he’s reaching inside and that—

That’s too much. With a gasp Sherlock tears himself away, standing up from the bed.

For a moment the room is very silent. Sherlock stays turned away. He can’t look at Victor. If he does he will be able to read the contempt in those blue eyes, he will see it even if Victor takes pains to hide it. And he can’t bear it. Not after a lifetime of seeing the same thing in the eyes of others: _Weirdo. Nutter. Freak._

“Sherlock, can you hand me that tray on the bench?” 

Victor’s voice is so polite, so normal, that Sherlock has to turn around. 

Victor’s face is calm. Sherlock scans it—every millimeter of it—and all he sees is what he’s seen in Victor since LAX: friendliness. Victor is inexplicably, persistently, almost ruthlessly friendly. Sherlock can’t understand it. _Nobody_ is this nice, not even in California.

“Dude? The tray?”

With slightly trembling fingers, Sherlock picks up the tray on the bench at the foot of the bed. It’s big enough for a blanket or a few magazines, and in fact that’s what’s inside of it right now, back issues of _Entertainment Weekly_ and _Premiere._ But Victor dumps those right out, exposing the mirrored bottom of the tray. He takes a glass vial out of the pocket of his jeans and unscrews the top. He dumps a pearly white powder onto the mirror. 

“What’s that?” Sherlock says, though he already suspects.

“Cocaine. Pharmaceutical grade, if I know your brother. Ford has the best damn contacts.”

Sherlock sees it again, Ford whispering in Victor’s ear before he went, squeezing his hand. That’s when he must have passed him the vial. “Why did he give it to you?” 

“Because, my edgy English laddy, he thought you might need it. I wasn’t sure, but now I see that he’s right. Ford’s always right. It’s really annoying sometimes.”

Sherlock sits back on the bed, intrigued despite everything. “Why cocaine?”

“Because good coke, taken in the correct quantities, makes you fuck like Superman.” Victor’s voice is oddly professorial. “Or maybe it doesn’t, but when you’re on it you don’t care. Like they say, it’s one helluva drug. Wish I’d had it my first time. A bottle of tequila is not the best aphrodisiac. I lasted about ten seconds and then passed out. Fucking embarrassing! But that’s junior high for you. Trust me: You want a night to remember? This is the way.”

As Victor speaks, he’s been cutting the cocaine into neat parallel lines with a razor he produced from the wallet he had in his back jeans pocket. Now he takes a dollar bill from there too, rolls it up, and holds it out to Sherlock. “First rail is yours; it’s only fair. Hurry up, Vi and Ali may come wandering back. Those girls will kill an 8-ball before you can say John Belushi.”

Victor gives him an encouraging smile, but Sherlock hesitates. In later years he won’t credit himself with prescience. There’s no way he could have guessed what the effects of this one decision would be, how it would echo through the rest of his life like a boulder dropped into quiet waters. He hesitates now because he always hesitates. _Stop before you act, think things through, don’t be bloody stupid, Sherlock._ Words he hears so often inside, and perhaps they are the product of his own inner voice. But that’s not the voice he hears when they come to him. The voice belongs to Mycroft; Sherlock hears him now. But he also hears someone else. 

_Here you can do what you want. This is the world of yes. Isn’t that why you came?_

Sherlock takes the rolled-up bill. He bends over the tray and positions the makeshift straw over a line of coke. He snorts it all in one go. 

Cocaine (benzoylmethylecgonine) is a crystalline tropane alkaloid that is obtained from the leaves of the coca plant. It’s made when the alkaloids in the coca leaves are broken down into ecgonine, then treated with methyl iodide and benzoic anhydride. The naturally-occurring amino acids are carbonized and then oxidized, forming the distinctive tropane rings that make up pure cocaine. A serotonin-norepinephrine-dopamine reuptake inhibitor, the drug is addicting because of the way it affects the mesolimbic reward pathway. Unlike most molecules, cocaine possesses pockets with both high hydrophilic and lipophilic efficiency. This allows it to cross the blood-brain barrier with a force that is vastly superior to other psychoactive chemicals.

“Fascinating,” Victor says. “Can you pass the straw?” Sherlock blinks—was he talking again? He gives Victor the straw. He jumps onto the bed and puts his hands on his face. His nose and gums are numb and his teeth hurt. There’s bitterness in his mouth and butterflies in his stomach. He feels wonderful.

Sherlock knows his chemistry: He knows all about cocaine. He could make it, given the proper supplies. He knows, but until this moment he _didn’t_ know, that in that shimmering white powder is the answer to everything. He feels his brain blaze like the nightscape of Los Angeles, thoughts rushing over his synapses like cars on the 405, leaving comet trails of red and yellow and blue. Everything is so bright in this moment, and colorful, and kind. This is the best place he has ever been, the best night, with the best people. _He_ is the best that he could be, he is here and he is him and it’s wonderful, wonderful. Such an amazing secret that’s been revealed to him, he should have seen it sooner. It was there all the time in the drug’s chemical formula.

“The tropane ring,” he traces the shape in the air. “It’s God’s eye, winking at us.”

“Sure,” Victor says, sounding a little breathless. “Come here.” He grabs Sherlock by the front of his trousers and pulls him close, kissing him. Sherlock thought Victor felt wonderful before but that was nothing compared to this, it’s like being embraced by silky electricity. Victor tastes like cocaine, and it’s the sweetest bitterness that Sherlock has ever tasted. He can’t get enough of him, nothing could taste better than him or feel better than him—at least that’s what he thinks until Victor puts his hand in Sherlock’s trousers, runs his fingers up the length of Sherlock’s stiff, quivering cock. Sherlock doesn’t pull away this time—he’d rather die. 

Victor leans in, whispering. “What do you want?”

“Anything,” Sherlock rasps. “You can do anything. Just—don’t stop touching me. Please—”

“Oh, I’m not going to stop.” Victor nips at Sherlock’s ear while his thumb teases just under the ridge of Sherlock’s foreskin. Sherlock gasps and almost climaxes right there and then. He would have, if Victor hadn’t released him. Before Sherlock can protest the loss, Victor has pushed him back on the bed. He pulls Sherlock’s trousers down and off. He leans over him.

Victor’s pupils are so dilated that his eyes look entirely black, and the spill of blue light from above has turned his tanned flesh violet. He smiles at Sherlock with glowing lavender teeth. It’s like being molested by a beautiful demon; if he disappeared in a puff of smoke Sherlock would be devastated but not surprised. This all has the frantic quality of a fever dream. How did he get here, naked in the blue light? Where did his shoes go? What is Victor going to do to him? 

“Everything,” Victor says, and Sherlock realizes he spoke that last question aloud. “But we’re going to start with something easy. You went to Eton: What’s the Latin for this, Sherlock?”

He bends his head and swallows Sherlock’s cock.

 _Fellatio. They call it fellatio, oral sex, giving head, sucking dick, going downtown, smoking the pole, third base, a hummer, a blowjob_ —whatever name you give it, Victor is very, very good at it. You can tell he loves doing it, gobbling Sherlock’s cock like a boy who has been presented with a particularly tasty ice cream cone, one that is likely to melt any moment and must be licked quickly, thoroughly, lest one precious drop be spilled. Perhaps all fellatio would be good fellatio to someone who an hour ago had never been kissed, but Sherlock suspects Victor would be good under any circumstances. Under these circumstances, his head approaches a religious experience. 

The orgasm hits Sherlock like another line of Ford’s excellent cocaine: smooth, sparkling, over too quickly. Victor sits back on his heels, wiping his lips. “Not bad. For starters.”

Sherlock just lies on his back, panting. He watches as Victor gets up, divesting himself of the rest of his clothes. Victor opens the bedside table and takes out lube and condoms. He climbs back on the bed, Sherlock’s beautiful demon, black eyes and blue skin and a long, hard, lavender cock. It hits Sherlock then, who that cock is meant for, what they’re about to do. He feels a pulse of fear that even the coke can’t entirely assuage. He opens his lips, probably to say something stupid, when a sweet, petulant voice breaks the silence first. 

“Well,” Violet says. “Isn’t this nice and cozy?” (Sherlock is sure that it is her, and not Alice. The shine of red on her fingernails, the shine of intelligence in her eyes. This is Violet, and he should care that he’s naked. He _does_ care that he doesn’t care—he only did one line, after all.) 

Violet stops at the left of the bed. She looks Victor up and down. “Working late, are we?” Her eyes flick to Sherlock. “So this is what I’m missing. Too bad! I think he’s bigger than you, Vic.”

“What do you want, Vi?” he says.

“Oh, I dunno,” she says, running her glossy nails down the coverlet. “A house in Malibu, an Oscar, a dozen pretty Filipino boys to give me foot rubs every morning. The usual.” She tilts her head at Victor. “Some of Ford’s bitching cocaine would be a good start.”

“So ask Ford.”

“Ford is downstairs flirting with George. Can you imagine what will happen if those two hook up? The collision of that much smug will destroy Earth and kill us all. May as well get stoned one more time before the world ends.” She arches an eyebrow. “May as well get laid, right?”

“Sure,” Victor says. “Why don’t you go do that?”

“I was supposed to be doing it already. Right in this room. Something went wrong, though.” She moves closer to Victor. _“Somebody_ snaked in and stole—my—thunder.” With each of the last three words she gives Victor a poke on his bare chest. The last poke looks hard enough to hurt, but Victor doesn’t seem pained. He grins at her.

“Guess you’ll have to go rumble over somebody else. Sherlock likes dick. Just like me.”

“You _are_ a dick, Vic. A great big one.” Her fingers crook into claws, raking down his chest. That really must have hurt, but Vic doesn’t flinch. In fact, he sways a little closer to her. His lips twitch. So does his cock.

“Not as big as Sherlock, though,” he says. “We agreed on that.”

“You’re big enough,” Violet’s nails trace over his hip.

“Poor Vi,” he coos. “Water water everywhere, and not a drop to drink.” 

“I’m plenty wet,” Violet says. She slips her straps off her shoulders. Her sequined nothing of a gown puddles on the floor. Her nipples are the bright pink of fresh raspberries, hardening in the cool air of the room, the creamy globes of her breasts gone gooseflesh. Violet is totally naked except for a tiny lace thong that’s almost the same color as her skin. She’s just a slip of a girl, but what there is of her is satin perfection. Her navel is pierced with a platinum ring that begs you to reach out, grasp hold. She’s so light, one tug would bring her close, capture her.

Victor’s expression suggests he’s thinking of doing just that. Violet smirks at him, then turns her head to meet Sherlock’s stare. “Yep, you boys are _so_ gay,” she says. “That’s why you look like you’re about to come in your pants. Wait, you’re not wearing any: You know what I mean.”

“It’s the coke,” Victor says, nodding at the end of the bed. Violet gives a little happy skip and picks up the vial from the tray. She does two fat lines with business-like efficiency. Then she sits on the bed by Sherlock, so close he can smell the almond-scented lotion on her skin. He could cup one of her perfect breasts in his hand, discover if they really are as soft as they look. He half-reaches out and then stops himself, fingers curling against his palm.

“It’s okay, honey,” Violet says, noting the gesture. “I don’t mind. But I’ve got a better idea.”

She opens the vial. She reclines back on the bed. And that’s how Sherlock ends up doing his second line off Violet’s smooth white tits. Which gives him the courage to not just touch but taste—her nipples are pink and hard like raspberries, tart like raspberries, the white skin around them sweet as cream. As his tongue traces one piquant areola, Violet gives a saucy squeak and pulls his hair. Sherlock nearly climbs on top of her right then and there, but manages to restrain himself to simply burying his face between her breasts.

“Yeah Vic, I see your point,” Violet says. “He doesn’t like girls at all.”

“Smart ass,” Victor says. “Scooch over.” 

Which is how Sherlock ends up arranged between Violet and Victor, his head still on Violet’s breasts, his back against Victor’s long, muscular bulk. 

“This isn’t exactly what I had planned,” Victor says.

“Tough. I’ve been planning this for a week. Does the word _Brazilian_ mean anything to you?”

“Fuck you, I’m not leaving,” Victor shoots back at Vi. “Ford asked me to be nice to Sherlock.”

“Ford asked _me_ to be nice to him. I’ve got a lot more riding on this than you.” 

“Oh, you think so? You’re not the only one who wants an Oscar someday.”

“You are such a selfish prick—”

 _“You can both be bloody nice to me,”_ Sherlock says. _“If_ you promise to quit talking about my brother. Because honestly, if you keep bringing him up there’s not going to be enough cocaine in the world to keep me from losing my erection. Especially since it’s so obvious that you two are in love with each other, despite this rather tiresome Beatrice and Benedict impersonation you are indulging in. That’s a Shakespeare reference, in case you’re curious, I know Americans get a bit lost when you go beyond _Romeo and Juliet._ In any event, before my brain chews itself to pieces with sensory overload, and before I grind my teeth down to bloody nubs from this quite stunning cocaine, provided by He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named, can we please shag already?”

There is a beat of silence. 

“Shit,” Violet says. “He talks.” 

“Yeah,” Victor says. “He does that sometimes. I’m beginning to think it’s a sickness: explosive verbal diarrhea.” They both giggle.

“You are a pair of pathetic twats,” Sherlock says.

 _“Trio,”_ Violet sings. “And by the way, Victor and I are not in love with each other.”

“Huh-uh,” Victor says. “I think she’s kind of a bitch. Hot, but a bitch. Ali is nicer.”

“Ali is retarded,” Violet says. “She’s down at the pool chatting up Darren. He makes Ford look like a pussy hound.”

“Stop talking about my brother,” Sherlock says.

“Sorry,” Violet says. “He kind of makes his presence known, you know?”

“Sherlock’s right, we should fuck him,” Victor says. “Can’t have an 18-year-old virgin in LA.”

“Oh _no,”_ Violet says, looking oddly serious at the news of Sherlock’s inexperience. “I’m pretty sure they’ve passed a law about that. We have to fuck him.”

“Let’s finish the coke first,” Victor says. So they do. 

Which is how Sherlock ends up some time later standing on the left side of the bed, feeling like his eyes are going to pop out of his skull any second. Part of it’s the coke, the rest is the vision in front of him. Violet recumbent upon the quilt, the ring in her navel catching the light. Lovely and shameless: knees apart, her hairless quim totally open and exposed, glistening up at him. Her clitoris is also pierced, the pink bud skewered by a bar with a platinum ball on either end. They seem to wink at him. Her eye winks too. “Come _on,_ Sherlock.” 

Strong arms encircle his waist. Victor, standing right behind him. “Don’t listen to her,” he says. “Take your time. _I’m_ going to.” Lube-slicked fingers are sliding into the cleft of Sherlock’s ass. They enter him, and Sherlock shudders. Victor prepares him, fucking him with his fingers while Violet giggles, the rings in her belly and clit dancing. 

This isn’t how he pictured it. All those desolate nights in London and in Berkshire, he never thought it would be like this. The scenarios he had imagined seemed so wicked at the time—certain schoolmates, a tasty lecturer or two, even Habib’s younger son (the gardener did father beautiful boys). Naughty, depraved, decadent, Sherlock had considered his fantasies. 

Victor’s slick, capable fingers trace around Sherlock’s hip. The sight of those black-polished nails sliding a condom on his cock makes Sherlock feel woozy. This— _this_ is real decadence. 

He shouldn’t have been able to bear it. To go from nothing to _this_ in the space of two hours. He should have run screaming from the room. Cocaine, cocaine: It’s one helluva drug.

He doesn’t run but for a moment he hesitates, not from fear but from sheer overload, his senses screaming at him even louder than usual. The sight of Violet’s raspberry nipples and rosebud clit, the scrape of Victor’s nails, the bitter taste of alkaloids, the lemon-vanilla of female arousal and the acrid musk of male lust, in this moment it’s all so real. As if these are the only real things he has ever known: The world he came from, the world of _no,_ is just a bad dream. England isn’t real, it never has been. This is the real world, this is California, and it’s so beautiful. Even the music blaring from downstairs, all cold synthesizers and repetitive vocals, is beautiful.

_And I feel like I just got home  
And I feel  
And I feel like I just got home  
And I feel_

Victor’s voice in Sherlock’s ear. “Fuck her,” he whispers. “She’s so wet for it. Do her, and I’ll do you.” A finger teases around the slick ring of Sherlock’s asshole. “You want it, don’t you?”

It’s a rhetorical question, but Sherlock answers. The only answer he could possibly make, in a world devoted to one simple response: 

“Yes.” _I’ll do it. Whatever I want. Anything I want. And I want everything._

He seizes Violet’s silken thighs and yanks her close. When he thrusts into her—which is almost exactly when Victor thrusts into him—it’s the most amazing moment in this night of amazing moments. The heaviest sensory overload, as if every synapse in his brain has caught fire. Senses blaze and melt together: hearing colors, tasting touches, feeling the music deep within his flesh.

_And I feel like I just got home  
And I feel  
And I feel like I just got home  
And I feel_

This is the moment reality ignites around him. This is when the doors of perception blow wide open, thrusting him into the center of the conflagration. Thrusting and thrust into, pounding Vi’s tight little cunt while Victor fucks him deep and hard. Splitting her in two while he’s being torn apart, he’ll never put himself back together again, not after this. His skull is shattering and the chaos is spewing out into the universe, a volcano of pain and delight.

_Quicker than a ray of light  
Quicker than a ray of light_

The song must be over by now—it feels like they’ve been fucking for hours. But he can still hear it, the same lines over and over again, he will always hear it. The music that was playing when he lost his innocence. His loneliness. He could do this forever—why would he want to do anything else? He knows now that this is what he was born to do. Touching, grasping, thrusting, feeling—he can feel _everything._

_Quicker than a ray of light she's flying  
Quicker than a ray of light I'm flying_

Violet tightens around him, crying out in orgasm. He feels Victor give a final thrust and groan in his ear. Then Sherlock is climaxing too, this night of endless seduction peaking in one last storm of pleasure. He comes with a stream of words that is one word: _Yes. Yes. Yes. Yeeesssss—_

Victor pulls out of him. Sherlock pulls out of Violet. Somehow the condoms get disposed of—it’s all so hazy all of a sudden, as if his saturated senses can’t properly process stimuli anymore. 

Soon enough he finds himself spooned up between Victor and Violet on the big white bed. He’s soaked with sweat, skin tingling, his eyes blinking rapidly at the blue lights overhead. He is so overstimulated, it’s surprising how good it feels when Vi turns his face to hers and kisses him again. It doesn’t feel at all wrong this time. He could kiss her forever. But finally, she breaks it. 

She taps him on the nose with one shiny red nail. “Welcome to Los Angeles, honey.” 

She laughs. Victor laughs too, and kisses Sherlock’s shoulder. And that’s how his first sexual experience ends: kisses, laughter, three in a bed. Not at all how he pictured it. Quite a miracle.


	4. Chapter 4

** Sherlock, 1998 (cont.) **

Sherlock awakes quite suddenly, jerked conscious by a nightmare in which he was five years old again, held down by Mycroft and forced to consume a bowl of sugar big enough to swim in. _Eat it,_ Mycroft ordered. _You’ve developed such an appetite? Eat every bite, you bloody fool._

As soon as his eyes jerk open, he realizes the limbs he was struggling against belong not to his brother but to Victor, who has a leg over Sherlock’s lower half, pinning him. Making matters worse is Violet, her cropped head on his shoulder, her sharp chin digging into his collarbone. 

Sherlock puts a hand to his face. There’s a pounding pain in his head, like tiny fists beating on the back of each eyeball. His belly is a cold stony lump; he may never eat again. Tea, however, is a grinding necessity. He could drink a cup as big as the bowl from his dream. 

Sherlock manages to disentangle himself from Victor and Violet, only to nearly trip over Alice, who is sleeping at the foot of the bed, head on her sister’s hip. Sherlock blinks at her a minute before he remembers her coming in at some point late last night. They were happy to see her: She’d somehow scored another gram from the party downstairs. Her presence was even more welcome after they’d each done another line. He remembers her dropping her sequined gown. She is pierced too, but her rings are gold, not platinum. One more way of telling the girls apart. 

Another image hits him, not so vague. Sherlock and Victor side-by-side on the bed, flat on their backs as they’re ridden by a pair of auburn-haired angels with devilish grins. A picture too sharp to be a dream: It definitely happened. Had he been ridden by Violet or Alice? Were the rings platinum or gold? Does it matter? 

He stands there a moment, holding onto the bedhangings for support. He looks down at the pile of limbs from which he just arose. So much willing flesh in Sherlock’s bed, sleeping in the pale light of a California dawn. Words come to him at once, though he hasn’t read the play in years.

_‘O, wonder! How many goodly creatures are there here! How beauteous mankind is! O brave new world, that has such people in it.’_

The quote from _The Tempest_ could be earnest or sarcastic: Aldous Huxley used it both ways in his novel. Sherlock isn’t sure how he himself means it. After a moment, he turns away from the bed. He dresses quickly and leaves the room.

He looks down the hall to his brother’s room, wondering if Ford is awake. Sherlock goes up to the bedroom door, putting his ear to the wood. Before barging in, he wants to make sure Ford isn’t engaged in some private activity. After last night’s revels, he may very well have a guest. Though coming across Ford _in flagrante_ would not be as traumatizing as, say, walking in on Mycroft, Sherlock would still rather not have to delete those particular images from his brain. He fears the task is beyond him this morning. But when he puts his ear to the door, all he hears is silence. He pushes it open gently and sees his brother’s platform bed (the twin of the one in his own room, but rendered in black instead of white) is empty and made up for the day. 

Sherlock goes downstairs. The kitchen is deserted. Ford isn’t there, and Justin must not have arrived yet. Then Sherlock cocks his head, hearing a familiar voice. It’s coming from the pool area. As he walks through the great room and draws closer to the sliding glass doors, he can see outside. The cleaners have been hard at work: It doesn’t look at all like there was a wild party going on just a few hours ago. The rectangle of water is a perfect serene blue, a faint morning mist rising from it. The slate tiles around the pool are scrubbed and spotless, the ring of green around that entirely free of debris. Only a slightly matted look to the grass would tell you that crowds have recently been trodding upon it. Sherlock suspects he might be able to find other, subtler signs of revelry, but can’t be bothered at the moment. He’s more focused on the voice. It’s his brother’s, and it sounds rather irritated. He can see Ford walking up and down on the slate, clad in a white shirt and seersucker trousers. There’s a sleek silver phone to his ear. 

“No, I’m not going to wake him. It’s seven in the sodding morning here. Anyway, there was a party last night, and he was up rather late. Yes, a _party_ —what do you mean, how could I do it to him? He had a lovely time—well, perhaps you don’t know him as well as you think. If it was up to you he’d be stuck up on Mt. Everest hanging fucking prayer flags. Yeah, he told me about it. What the hell were you thinking? If there’s one thing Sherlock doesn’t need, it’s _silence._ As it is, I spent most of yesterday wondering if he was autistic. If he isn’t, it’s no thanks to you.”

Ford pauses to listen again. “Oh, would you stop being such a bloody old woman! He’s fine—I have to go— _I do so,_ it’s a breakfast meeting, don’t they have those in London? I’ll have him call you. There’s my assistant, I have to go.” 

Ford clutches the mobile in one fist, swinging it back and forth as if he’d like to chuck it as hard as he could. But finally he puts it in his pocket and releases a breath. He glances at the sliding doors and gives a start when he sees Sherlock standing there. He recovers quickly, smiling. 

“Mycroft was on the phone,” he says. “Call him back, but not for a few hours: Let him sweat. We mustn’t indulge that obsessive streak of his.” Ford sits down at the big outdoor dining table, a concrete rectangle with weathered teak legs. It’s covered with papers of various kinds except for one corner, which holds a breakfast tray. “Let’s have brekkie, shall we?” he says.

Sherlock walks outside, blinking in the light. “I’m not hungry.” _Not autistic, either. Ass._

“I shouldn’t think so. Cocaine does kill the appetite, even very good cocaine, and mine is awesome. Still, you can sit.” Ford indicates another chair. “Fresh air will do you good.”

“I don’t care for sunbathing.”

“That’s clear: You’re the color of a milk bottle. You’re going to have to work on that, can’t go wandering about looking like a vampire. That might work in New York, but not here.”

Sherlock is about to stalk back inside when he gets a closer look at what’s on the breakfast tray. Wonder of wonders, a teapot and white china cups. He can smell the heavenly aroma of PG Tips from six feet away. Ford sees the expression on his face and smirks.

“One habit from home I can’t break: a cuppa first thing in the morning. Going by the desiccated look on your face, lucky for you, eh? ”

Sherlock no longer cares about the sarcasm: Just give him the tea. He buries his nose in the cup, then takes a long, long draught. He feels it flood through his body like rain on parched earth. He drinks a whole cup and half of another before he bothers noticing the outside world again. When he emerges, he’s feeling slightly less irritable. 

“You’re up early,” he says. 

“I never sleep after I’ve been working all night. That’s what the party was, really: One more meeting, just with mojitos. Anyway, how could I sleep? Had to look a _Brave New World,_ I’m meeting Harvey again at noon.” Ford’s fingers ruffled the annotated pages of the blue-bound script on the table beside him. “Vic's right—he generally is about these things, it's why I pay him the big bucks. The script’s _weird,_ and not in a good way.”

“You’re not going to do the film?”

“Of course I’m going to do it! Just not with this script. Perhaps I won’t even bother with one. Stanley Kubrick worked straight from the novel when he was shooting _A Clockwork Orange,_ and look how well it turned out for him.”

Sherlock, who has never seen _A Clockwork Orange,_ says nothing.

“You should eat something,” Ford says. “I had Justin make gazpacho yesterday. It’s bloody wonderful for a hangover.” 

Sherlock looks at the big bowl of ice-cold tomato soup and grimaces. “No, thank you.”

“Suit yourself. It’s your head. Victor will finish it once he gets up. He knows the best cure after a night of debauchery.” 

Sherlock feels himself color. It’s one thing to contemplate a pile of lovely limbs in private, quite another to hear Ford reference it, even if his tone is casual. 

_“Shame,”_ Ford says. “How cute. Not quite the thing here, though. Worse than pasty skin.”

Sherlock is silent, tracing a finger around the rim of his cup and trying to will the blush away. 

“Mind you, I’m the one who should be ashamed,” Ford goes on. “How did I miss the fact that you fancy blokes? The Lavender Mafia is going to lift my membership card. I suppose I was playing the averages: Out of three sons, you should only get one poufter.”

“I’m not gay,” Sherlock says. Then he realizes how stupid this sounds, after his behavior over Victor. After what Ford had witnessed—no, that’s not right. What Ford had _directed._

“Hmm, I should say not. I could hear Violet all the way down the hall last night. She’s quite the screamer. But I wouldn’t say you were straight, would you?”

Sherlock shrugs and ducks his head. Ford finally takes pity on him and changes the subject.

“I’m seriously considering Vi for Lenina Crowne in _Brave New World_ ,” he says. “Pity about the hair, I think she cut it off because she was trying to seduce me last month. Silly girl! She didn’t realize it isn’t long hair I object to: It’s _vaginas.”_

“I like her hair.”

“I’m sure you do, but Lenina can’t look like a boy with tits. Ah well, we can wig her. Rather lucky that she has a twin, Aldous’s novel is full of clones. It will be quite the mindfuck for the viewer when we bring the two of them onscreen. Vi will hate sharing the spotlight with sis, but she’ll just have to get over it. I’ll only use Alice for a couple of scenes anyway, Fanny Crowne isn’t a big role. Funny how things work out: They have the same face, but Vi has ten times the charisma. No wonder Victor is so smitten with her.”

Sherlock’s chin jerks up. “You knew?”

“What, that Vic and Vi fancy each other? Of course. Oh, he tries to play it off. He calls her and Alice the Copper Bitches. But the mutual infatuation is rather obvious.”

“Then why did you—” Sherlock stops, gripping his teacup.

“Why did I ask them to shag you?”

It’s an effort to get the word out: “Yes.” 

“They would have been angry at me if I hadn’t asked. Now I owe them both a favor. Really, Sherlock, you have rather low self-esteem. Do you think that shagging you was a hardship?”

He shrugs. 

“You don’t miss much: Don’t you think they had a good time? Didn’t you? Be honest.”

After a moment, Sherlock has to nod.

“Well then, what’s the problem?” There is genuine curiosity in Ford’s voice.

Sherlock stares at his brother for a full minute.

“You really don’t understand, do you?” he says. “You wouldn’t have, even at my age. You’re _not_ John Savage, Sherrinford: He was an innocent. You were never that, not at 18. Not at 12.” 

“You’re not John Savage either, baby brother.” Ford is enunciating a little too clearly. “He hung himself from shame after his first orgy. Yet here you are, quite ungarroted.”

Sherlock can feel his face flushing again, but makes himself push on. “Savage didn’t hang himself from shame. It was out of love. What he felt for Lenina had been something pure, something that made him a man instead of a debauched child, like everybody else in London. After the orgy, after he had used her like every other man in town used her, he couldn’t bear it. The _betrayal_ of it: He could only redeem himself through death. He was so in love with her, and his love killed him. Maybe you have been in love, but never like that. Devotion so powerful you’d do anything to preserve it, some small part of it. A love that makes you want to die.” 

Sherlock forces himself to drain his cup so he’ll shut up. He looks down, away from his brother’s gaze. The dawning realization in those steely eyes. 

“So that’s what he is,” Ford says. “No, not autistic. Not scientific, like Mycroft thinks. Or not _only_ that, anyway. Who would ever have guessed? But I suppose out of three brothers there has to be one romantic. It’s inevitable.”

“You’re an ass,” Sherlock snaps.

“Yep,” Ford says. “But I’m not wrong. So let me give you one final piece of advice. When you fall in love—and you will—don’t do it in LA. Not _my_ LA. It’s the worst possible place for one of your temperament. Let the Victors and the Violets have each other: They understand the feelings they share. They’ll never understand yours, not if they shag you every night for the next 50 years. If love is what you’re after here, we should send you home on that two o’clock flight.”

Sherlock thinks about it. He knows that leaving would be the safer choice. He could be in Nepal in a fortnight, high on a mountaintop with the monks. No bright lights and fast cars, no mojitos and cocaine. No pretty boys and pretty girls, no temptations of any kind. _No,_ that’s the material point: Nepal is 5000 miles from the UK, but it’s still Mycroft’s world. Maybe Sherlock said _yes_ too often last night, rushing into decadence like an inexperienced driver speeding down the 405 in a borrowed Porsche. But he can’t regret Vic and Vi, beautiful debauched children that they are. He can’t regret how they made him feel, though he aches this morning. Feeling something— _everything_ —is so much better than feeling nothing. Even if you end by destroying yourself.

“I don’t want to go home,” he says. “Nepal would be comfortable. I don’t want comfort.”

Ford grins, recognizing the quote. He should: He’s making the bloody movie. John Savage’s last speech to Mustapha Mond, just before everything went so very wrong. “You want God, you want poetry, you want real danger, you want freedom, you want goodness. You want sin.”

“Yes,” Sherlock says. He finds himself smiling back, though the expression feels strange.

“A lad after my own heart.” Ford’s tone is light as always, but there is a note in his voice that makes Sherlock regard him closely. That’s when he sees it. His brother does understand. Ford, for all his ironic distance and easy charm, knows how Sherlock feels. He suspected as much last night, once he really studied the Basquiat painting. Now he is certain of it. Ford knows how it is to be locked inside of your own skull, with just the colors and the chaos for company. Perhaps he isn’t a romantic like Sherlock, but he is like Sherlock, in at least one important way. 

For a time the brothers look at each other, sharing something it’s probable neither of them has known before: a moment of mutual empathy and understanding. Then Sherlock looks down at his teacup, and Ford snaps open his _LA Times_ in a business-like manner. 

“After all, we can’t let Mycroft be right, can we?” he says. “He’d never let us live it down. Smug bastard, that’s what _he_ is. Out of three brothers, there must be one.”


	5. Chapter 5

** Sherlock, 2000 **

_When it finally ends, it isn’t with a whimper but with a bang. A hundred miles an hour, weaving in and out of traffic like a man playing God’s own video game. The Porsche’s engine growling like a frustrated tiger when you get hung up behind a semi, roaring in triumph as you nip around it, narrowly missing a beat-up Mustang and a Maserati (the same model as Ford’s but black),its owner screaming at you and giving a one-fingered American salute as you dash up and around him and it’s wonderful, wonderful, windows open and the wind howling in your ears like the coke is howling in your veins. Cocaine, cocaine: It makes every night the best night._

_Red taillights ahead of you, white headlights coming towards you, five lanes of traffic on either side but you’re flying—if you can only drive fast enough you won’t think about it, the look on their faces when they came back from Vegas, the love in their eyes that has nothing to do with you, love that is also a death, of everything you felt, of everything the three of you were—enough momentum and you can get away, become nothing but sound and speed and air, rushing on and on towards the mountains. Nothing can stop you, your reflexes are superhuman from drugs and adrenaline, you’re never going to stop, you will just keep going and going and going—_

_When you hit the concrete barrier it’s almost funny. You hear the screech of metal and start to laugh_ —Ford is going to fucking kill me— _but it’s not so amusing a second later, the Porsche slowed but not stopped, rocketing over the barrier and into the southbound lane. Headlights glow like furious eyes, scream of horns and screech of tires and as the first car slams into the side of the Porsche you realize that this isn’t the best night._

_This is the last night._

“Sherlock, have you been listening?”

He turns away from the window. “No.”

The second and third fingers of Mycroft’s right hand give an infinitesimal twitch. Two years ago he would have betrayed exasperation in some more discernible way: a grimace, a sigh. Perhaps even the momentary making of a fist, like he’d like to give his bratty little brother a black eye, as he did once, long ago, when Sherlock was just 13. But not now. His expression remains calm, almost amused. He’s getting better. Colder.

“Your first classes are tomorrow,” Mycroft says. “Quantum Chemistry followed by Medicinal Biology. The times and locations are on that paper there—” he indicates the sheet on the desk, situated on top of a thick stack of books. “The rest of your schedule is also specified. Books, as you can see, are already purchased. All that’s required of you is rising, dressing, and getting yourself to the South Kensington campus by nine. Do you think you can do that?”

Three kilometers. That’s how far he’s trusted now. “I’m not a child, Mycroft.”

“Oh, I’m quite aware of that. I became aware when the phone call came from Cedars-Sinai. Those 90 days in the psychiatric hospital confirmed it.”

“It was a rehab center. In Malibu. Ocean views, Jacuzzis, tennis courts. Hardly the Snakepit.”

 _“Sherrinford.”_ Impressive, really, the contempt his brother manages to inject into three clipped syllables without so much as a change in volume. Mycroft really is getting better at this.

“If it were up to me, you would have been in a locked-door facility with real doctors,” he says. “But our brother had different ideas. Any relapse will be on his head.”

“I’m not taking cocaine anymore,” Sherlock says. “You’ve seen the blood tests.”

“No. While you’re staying with me, you won’t be taking it. I’m not some wheatgrass-guzzling guru, do you understand? If you fall, I will know. And it won’t be the sunny shores of Malibu next time. Perhaps that was enough to satisfy the California courts, but it won’t satisfy me.” 

“Decapitation or stoning? Crucifixion, perhaps. Your time in the Middle East really has had a bracing effect.”

Three fingers twitch this time. Ha. But Mycroft doesn’t even bother with denials. He was better than _that_ ten years ago. He puts his restless hand on the doorknob. “I will leave you to unpack,” he says. “Dinner is at seven.” He pauses. “Mrs. Thompson is making shepherd’s pie.” 

Sherlock recognizes the olive branch, small and shriveled as it is. Once upon a time, that was his favorite. It’s Mycroft’s favorite, too. One of the few things they’ve ever agreed upon. 

“I gave up red meat,” he says, gaze lingering at his brother’s middle. “You should try it.” Seeing Mycroft’s fingers tighten on the knob: “You should also consider a walking stick. It would give you something to do with your hands. The twitching is such an _obvious_ tell. You can’t very well negotiate with Salman bin Abdul-Aziz Al Saud like that.” Sherlock considers. “Perhaps an umbrella. I suppose the comparisons with The Penguin would be inevitable, given your build. But it’s better than risking the security of the Free World.” 

“So that’s how it’s going to be,” Mycroft says.

“If you don’t enjoy our chats, send me away.”

“Back to California? You’ve overstayed your welcome there, _baby brother.”_ The term is not an endearment: Mycroft has never called him that. “Sherrinford doesn’t want you. Why would he? The loss of the Porsche might be forgiven—he can buy another. But you’ve put him behind I don’t know how many weeks on his film, and he won’t tolerate that. For all his pretensions of rebellion, he’s very like Father. The work always comes first. Interfere with it, and you end up in Siberia—or Belgravia, as the case may be.”

“It was your idea to send me back.” Sherlock tries and fails to keep the irritation from his voice. He shouldn’t engage, he knows better. But he can still remember the expression on Ford’s face when he took him to the airport. An expression so much like the one he remembers too often on Siger’s: blank dismissal. 

“No, it was my idea never to send you out there in the first place. I knew that it wasn’t a good environment. But Ford thinks he possesses the sum of all human knowledge between his ears—Father never will be dead while our brother is alive. But unlike Father, he is shockingly bad at cleaning up his messes. He takes after Mother in that regard.” 

Mycroft straightens like a man shouldering a heavy burden he’s set on carrying to completion. “So here we are. Together again. In time, now that the disturbers of your brain are removed, I think you will appreciate being home again. If nothing else, your studies should divert you.”

Sherlock’s eyes cut to the pile of textbooks on the desk, then away. “You should have asked before registering me. I never said I wanted to study Chemistry.” 

“Since you were six, you’ve never wanted to study anything else. Even Ford said you spent much of your time showing off to his special effects crew. Smoke and mirrors and so forth. Now you’ll have the opportunity to put your skills to serious use. You’ve had a good long run of—diversion. At least a year longer than you should have had. Now it’s time to work.”

“I wasn’t always with the special effects crew,” Sherlock says. “There were the cocaine binges and the orgies. Usually both at once. Quite diverting.”

Mycroft clenches both hands. He’s not that good yet: Perhaps he never will be. Bring up sex, and it’s like pulling a cat’s tail. No umbrella is going to hide it. 

_“Unpack,”_ he snaps. “I’ll check on you later.” 

Possibly, Mycroft is even more damaged than Sherlock is. Functional is not the same as normal. He learned that at Promises. Some very good doctors there, wheatgrass shots notwithstanding.

Sherlock calls after Mycroft before he can leave earshot. “You’re not so different from Ford. You don’t want me here either.”

Mycroft spins around. “I want you alive, you self-destructive little twit. Alive, and in your right mind. Have you any idea how close you came to being a charred corpse on the 405 highway? A drooling vegetable? It was _very_ close, Sherlock. 

“So you will stay here until I can see that you’ve acquired something approaching sense. If that never happens, we will remain in this house together until we’re both doddering centenarians. Now unpack and come eat Mrs. Thompson’s sodding shepherd’s pie. Or don’t. I’m past caring.” 

He turns on his heel and stalks downstairs. 

Sherlock leans against the window, allowing himself a sigh now that Mycroft is gone. He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a pack of cigarettes. The last time he stood in this spot he didn’t smoke: He picked up the vice in California, along with all the others.

Twenty-seven months since he last stood here, and his room is exactly the same. The narrow single bed by the door, the blue wallpaper, the old pictures in their tarnished silver frames. His desk and hutch against the left-hand wall, stuffed with papers and various other effluvia. The mahogany wardrobe on the right, with its creaky door and scratched knobs. The sash window with its wavy panes of glass, overlooking the garden. Everything unchanged since he was six, when Father discharged the nurse and told him he was to sleep here alone on the third floor. 

A casual visitor (not that Sherlock has any of those) might think the room smells of old plaster and orange furniture polish, but what it really smells of is time: slow, measured, unending. 

Sherlock saw a photograph of this room once, circa 1920. It was identical except for the linens on the bed. It has been like this for 80 years, and no doubt it will look the same 80 years from now, when he is a doddering centenarian. He hates the part of him that loves it, the stability of it, the permanence. As comforting as a constricting embrace, one that’s held you all of your life.

He blows out smoke. At least it won’t smell the same. Not like unending time. Or not only like it, anyway. Cigarettes are not the loveliest scent in the world, but they are better than stagnation.

Mycroft will become peevish, however. Smoking, like sex, isn’t one of his brother’s vices. Single-malt scotch and geopolitical domination are more in his line. Sherlock doesn’t have the strength for further sparring with Mycroft. Not today. He opens the window.

Outside it’s a lovely late September day, cool and sunny. The rosebushes in the garden are yellowing but not yet dead, branches heavy with fat red hips. Ahmad, the gardener’s boy, is trimming off the few dead heads remaining, preparing for the coming winter. He’s happy as he works, a well-muscled lad of 19 or so, amber-eyed and golden-skinned, thick black hair curling over the collar of his t-shirt. He’s listening to the radio, a peppy pop tune Sherlock remembers on the radio in California last spring. Madonna’s cover of an older song. 

_A long, long time ago_  
 _I can still remember_  
 _How that music used to make me smile_  
 _And I knew that if I had my chance_  
 _I could make those people dance_  
 _And maybe they'd be happy for a while_

The memory comes to him, so vivid it’s like he’s there again, weaving along the Pacific Coast Highway with Victor and Violet, the two of them singing this song at the top of their lungs as Sherlock drives and rolls his eyes at them. Still too English even after two years to sing along, but not too English to enjoy the sound of them, to revel in the feel of Violet’s hand on his thigh, the touch of Victor’s fingers on the back of his neck, the smell of pot smoke and the burn of sun through the windshield. Below them is the sparkling blue of the ocean, it’s a perfect spring day in California and they are young and in love, as high as kites and it’s wonderful, wonderful—

_Did you write the book of love_  
 _And do you have faith in God above_  
 _If the Bible tells you so_  
 _Now do you believe in Rock 'n’ roll_  
 _And can music save your mortal soul_  
 _And can you teach me how to dance real slow_

This was the best day, the last before that fateful weekend. The three endless days Violet and Victor disappeared. To Las Vegas, as it turned out, Ford screaming at them on the phone to _get your asses back on set NOW._ And there they were, smiling and sheepish and married. _Nothing has to change,_ they said. _Spur of the moment, just a piece of paper, nothing is different_ —did they think they could fool him? He could see it in their eyes, hear it in their voices, see all the tiny touches and secret glances, a hundred obvious tells that everything had changed. What they had—what he thought the three of them had—was gone. Vic and Vi were husband and wife, they could shag him every day for the next 50 years, but nothing would ever be the same. The worst day, when he realized it. The very worst day he has known. A pain so shocking that the only palliative was an 8-ball and a solo drive down the 405. 

_I started singing_  
 _Bye, bye, Miss American Pie_  
 _Drove my Chevy to the levee_  
 _But the levee was dry_  
 _And good old boys were drinking whiskey and rye_  
 _Singing this'll be the day that I die_  
 _This'll be the day that I die_

A miracle, everybody said. He should have died—would have died, if he had been wearing his seatbelt. Never could get used to the sodding thing, he always had to be reminded by Victor. He wasn’t wearing it that last night. Thrown from the car, scratched and bruised all to hell with one particularly nasty gash on his abdomen, but nothing like the charred corpse he should have been. A helluva drug and one helluva DUI, if it weren’t for Ford’s influence he probably would have seen jail time. As it was, 90 days at Promises and he was out. Out of jail, out of rehab, and, in the end, all the way out of California. Ford was as polite as a stranger when he packed Sherlock’s bags and put him on the plane back home. Violet and Victor were chagrined but not distraught —why should they be? Newlyweds only need each other. Alice was more upset.

_Well now, in the streets the children screamed_  
 _The lovers cried, and the poets dreamed_  
 _But not a word was spoken_  
 _The church bells all were broken_

_And the three men I admire the most_  
 _The Father, Son and the Holy Ghost_  
 _They caught the last train for the coast_  
 _The day the music died_

Ahmad looks up. He catches Sherlock’s eye. He raises a hand, smile appropriately polite to the brother of his employer. But Sherlock can still see it. He wouldn’t have seen 27 months ago, the frank invitation in that steady dark gaze. But now his eyes have been opened. 

Ahmad, it would seem, is as pretty and as wanton as his big brother Bijan, the one who used to service Sherrinford. Two poufters out of two sons, what are the odds? Amazing that Mycroft has kept the family on, but good help is so hard to find these days.

Twenty-year-old Sherlock knows that he could have that pretty dark-eyed boy. Right now he could have him, pull Ahmad away from the roses and push him into the gardening shed. He could sink down on his knees and suck the fine big cock he can see outlined by the boy’s tight jeans. Ahmad would smell like sweat and autumn leaves. He’d taste even better, like freedom and possibility. Time, not slow and measured but fast as wind, speeding like lights on the 405.

Sherlock could. But he won’t. How fast would he go once he had Ahmad? How long would it take him to find the clubs in Soho, full of pulsing lights and pounding music? How long before the men found him, a hundred Victors with posher accents and better drugs? Then it would all be over. Mycroft has made no specific threats, but he doesn’t have to. Sherlock’s brother hates to touch or be touched, but he knows how to hold someone closely. Close enough to suffocate.

And here is the material point, beyond the looming threat that is Mycroft: Sherlock doesn’t want to. Two years in California, he is surfeited on sun and sushi and cocaine. He wouldn’t admit it under torture (of which Mycroft is more than capable), but his brother is right. It’s time to work. If that leaves him lonely, so be it. He doesn’t miss the orgies. And the love—it was never real to begin with, was it? Lovely but hollow, like Victor and Violet. As false as one of Ford’s film sets. 

_Bye, bye, Miss American Pie_  
 _Drove my Chevy to the levee_  
 _But the levee was dry_  
 _And good old boys were drinking whiskey and rye_  
 _Singing this'll be the day that I die_  
 _This'll be the day that I—_

Sherlock shuts the window. He grinds out his cigarette and sits down at his desk. He looks up at the picture of the Queen hung over it, Elizabeth II resplendent in coronation robes. Just under that, set atop the hutch, is his antique skull. It was a twelfth birthday present from Mycroft. 

In his mind’s eye, Sherlock sees Ford’s leering, priceless Basquiat. He sees the shocking Sex Pistols canvas hung over the big white bed. You could cry at the contrast, but Sherlock doesn’t. He bends his head and opens his chemistry textbook.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're the kind of person who listens to directors' commentaries, you might enjoy my author notes for chapters 1-5. There are a few deep thoughts and lots of fun pictures! The notes are available at my Dreamwidth and Livejournal blogs.
> 
>  
> 
> [Author Notes at Dreamwidth](http://chase820.dreamwidth.org/303677.html)
> 
>  
> 
> [Author Notes at Livejournal](http://chase820.livejournal.com/318044.html)
> 
>  
> 
> Links to other notes can be found at the end of chapters 12, 20, 23, 28, 29, 32, 38, 42, and 47.


	6. Chapter 6

** John, 2001 **

John has killed four Guinnesses and is inflicting grievous bodily harm on a fifth before Mark asks. Not that he needs to: It’s always the same answer. Has been, for almost half a year now.

“Lucy on the rag again?”

John belches against the back of his hand before speaking. “Forgot to give her cat his sodding furball goo. Apparently it means I no longer value our relationship or respect her as a woman.”

“Why doesn’t she dose the damn moggie?”

“Four double shifts in a row. Nelson is a bloody sadist.”

“He’s a surgeon: He cuts people to pieces for a living. She wants his approval, she’ll have to learn to enjoy being vivisected.” 

“She’s coming along all right.” John rubs at the back of his neck, where all the muscles have bunched like small angry fists. Settling his beer more firmly on his stomach, he leans against Mark’s worn sofa. Mark can afford better but doesn’t give a damn: his flat tricked out in modern bachelor grunge, worn furniture and new electronics, the place reeking of beer and testosterone. Nothing like John and Lucy’s mews cottage, everything shiny and clean, colors matchy but not _too_ matchy, IKEA and John Lewis interspersed with good family pieces. Hers, not his. Watsons aren’t long on heirlooms, unless you count dodgy tempers and a predisposition to alcoholism.

John takes another swallow of Guinness and reflects on how much he fucking hates color-coordinated sofa cushions. Almost as much as he hates cats. 

“You can’t go home like that, mate,” Mark says, eyeing John’s beer. “Lucy will kill you.”

“I’ll hoof it. Sober me up.”

“Five kilometers in your state? I don’t think so. You’ll end up in the fucking river.” 

John stares at Mark’s huge television set, the football match rendered in such gorgeous, loving detail that you can practically count the grass blades on the field. 

“I don’t want to go home,” he says distinctly.

“No prob. The sofa is all yours.”

“Still have to in the morning, right?” He takes a breath. “The fucking Thames would be better.”

Mark looks at John a moment. His expression never changes much: His smoothly handsome features maintain a studied calm no matter what he’s facing, be it crippled kids or whinging mates. Just the sort of unflappability you want in a pediatric orthopedic surgeon. So Mark doesn’t raise an eyebrow now. But he edges closer to John on the sofa. His fingers brush John’s shoulder in a companionable way. “You don’t _have_ to go home,” he says. “You get that, don’t you? There’s no ring on your finger. Even if there were—”

“We’ve been together three years.”

“It’s a relationship, not a sentence.” Mark squeezes John’s shoulder. “She’s a brilliant girl, but there are other girls. Scads of them.”

John shakes his head. “Not like her.” 

He’s too drunk to articulate it, the wonder of Lucinda. Part of him has never quite been able to grasp it, why she chose him when she could have had anyone. Lovely and amazing, his girl, as slender as a willow but with a mind like a scalpel’s edge. The first time he met her she seemed totally untouchable, like one of his mum’s china dolls, porcelain skin and pale eyes, too fragile for his calloused fingers. Even her voice was intimidating—all those rounded consonants and clipped vowels, money and privilege in every syllable she breathed.

He was blind drunk the first time they shagged. It was the only way he could have got through it. Lucky for him, he could always perform just as well wasted as sober. Better, maybe—she certainly didn’t have any complaints. 

They moved in together three months later. By then he had seen the steel under the porcelain. The contrast fascinated him at first. But now he knows there is something else, a third layer beneath her armor. Something easily broken. “I can’t leave her,” he says. “She’ll fall apart.”

“Not our Luce. Her kind always comes out all right.”

“You don’t know her.”

“We were at Oxford together. Saw her suck the life out of so many blokes we should have called her Vampira. You’ve lasted longer than any of ‘em. But you always were bloody minded about things.”

John says nothing. He watches Beckham running down the field, muscles gleaming under the ferocious lights. A figure of such speed and grace he looks almost inhuman, tattoos shining on his coppery skin. John’s fingers trace his own, still new enough to be itchy. Before tonight, that was the last major row between him and Lucy. Mark had been with him when John got inked. Mark had two already. John hadn’t meant to get any: It began with a football bet, which John lost. It took two hours to finish, and Mark was there with him the entire time. 

The experience had been almost surreal, Mark’s cool green eyes fixed on him as John tried not to flinch from the pain. Blur playing on the tinny speaker overhead— _she’s so high, she’s so high, I wanna crawl all over her . . ._

Mark turns his head towards the telly. “Look at our Captain. He’s gonna take this one. The Red Devils are a lock for the title again.”

John shakes his head. “Never gonna happen. It’s Arsenal’s to lose.”

Mark takes a slug of beer. “Beckham is a wonder. Not fair, really, a foot like that and a face like that. Suppose the voice balances accounts, though.”

“I like Posh better.”

“Beckham would be the better screw. Flexible, yeah?” Mark’s fingers trace down his beer can.

John raises his chin. “Wouldn’t know. Not gay.” 

“Neither am I.” Mark smirks. _“Flexible._ There’s a word.” 

(Flexible. John isn’t that. Toby doesn’t count: They were kids. Just kids, larking about. John hasn’t seen him since the summer before uni. He has never missed him. All right, he did a bit at first, but he never missed the confusion of Toby. He missed the sex, he missed the conversations. He didn’t miss the way Toby had made him feel.)

Mark nods towards the telly. “You’re not the least bit curious about what Becks would look like naked? What he’d _feel_ like?”

The image hits John then, brighter than the neon scream of Mark’s television. A glistening, tattooed body sprawled on cool white sheets, smooth muscles gliding under wanton flesh. But the body doesn’t belong to David Beckham. John remembers it, Mark’s body under the hard white fluorescents of the tattoo parlor. When John finished his first Mark had gotten his third, a Celtic cross on the top of his back, between the two wide wings of his shoulder blades. They got drunk off their asses after, but the real buzz had been the endorphins from the needle. So much pleasure in being pricked.

John blinks at Mark, who is suddenly hovering, so close John can feel his body heat.

“If Becks makes that goal, I get to suck your cock,” he says.

John doesn’t move a muscle. Perhaps the beer is cushioning the shock. So why is his mouth so dry? He could be 18 again, tackled to the ground and gasping.

“If he doesn’t make it?” John whispers.

“He will,” Mark says. His fingers pluck at the top button of John’s fly. Behind him is the green of the field, so real that it’s unreal, wavering in John’s vision.

Mark doesn’t even look at the screen before bending his head.


	7. Chapter 7

** John, 2002 **

When John emerges from the bath, Mark is there. He’s sprawled on the counterpane of his bed, multi-tasking as usual: the laptop open in front of him, the bedroom telly blaring the news report. He’s bedhead gorgeous, wearing only low-slung sweats and a pensive expression as his fingers dance over the keyboard. Months of shagging, and the sight of his friend like this still gives John a tight feeling in his chest. In his trousers too, if he were wearing any. 

“All right?” John says, adjusting the towel around his waist. 

He thought he scrubbed off most of it in the shower, but something of the day must still be clinging to him, because Mark closes the laptop, saying, “Rough day at the office, dear?” 

“Scalding,” John says. “Mum is frying chicken for dinner. Turns her back for five seconds and her ten-year-old knocks the pan off the stove and gives himself a boiling oil bath.”

“How bad?” Mark says, wincing.

“Not good. He wasn’t wearing a shirt. Skin falling off him in sheets. Deep second degree at least—they’ve got him hooked up to a morphine drip, seeing how things develop. Either way it’s going to scar. Nice way to start middle school, looking like the fucking elephant man. Mum went hysterical, of course. Kept screeching and crying, which I could take. But then she started punching. Jahzara Jones body-slammed her and stuck 2 mg’s of Ativan in her arse. That cooled Mummy out. I do love Zara: If she weren’t 14 stone and a grandmum I’d have kissed her.”

“Shit. Poor kid.” 

“Yeah.” John reclines back on the bed, putting his hands behind his head. “Still, though. Little Dennis isn’t the brightest bulb on the Christmas tree. Must get it from Mum.”

“Come on, John. He’s ten.”

“I was making full English breakfasts at that age.” 

“Really?” 

“Hand to God.”

“Your mum must have had a lot of confidence.”

“Maybe she would have. She’d been dead two years by then.” The words are out before John really thinks. Once they are, he regrets them. He looks up at the ceiling so he can’t see the look on Mark’s face. _Pity—_ John couldn’t stand it at age ten, and he certainly has no use for it now.

“I didn’t know you lost her so young.” When John doesn’t react to this Mark tries to rally, tone more determinedly jocular: “What a good boy you were, cooking for you and Dad.”

“My sister, mostly.” Dad didn’t eat much, unless you went by the old salvo that there is a slice of bread in every can of beer. John is hit by the image then, a very old image, stepping over his father’s motionless body so he could reach the stove. Dad always passed out in the kitchen for some reason. It made things damned tricky some mornings, like making brekkie on an obstacle course. There were times John tripped, beans/eggs/bacon going all over. No time to start again: often no supplies, either. Hungry days, stomach rumbling all during morning classes until lunch. Flirting with the dinner ladies for free seconds—pathetic but needful. That’s when John learned that keeping your chin up and making nice can get you things. All sorts of necessary things. 

He blinks and sits up. Where the fuck did all that come from? If this kept on, he’d be the one needing the Ativan. 

“It must have been hard,” Mark says, his even features creased with concern. Confusion, too. He can’t understand. All the tats in the world don’t change what he really is: a nice posh boy from Greenwich, no boozy fathers passed out on his kitchen floor. Probably didn’t even wash his own socks until uni. John might hate Mark if he didn’t like him so much.

“Hard,” John says. “There’s a word.” He pulls Mark in for a kiss. Mark is stiff for a moment— _Oh God, please don’t try to turn this into a conversation_ —then he gives in, snogging the hell out of John while his hand slides under the vulnerable border of John’s towel. That sort of attention is quite welcome, thank you, so much better than talking about feelings, which Mark has been doing entirely too much lately. Greenwich or no, who knew that a man with three tattoos and a ’57 Triumph Tiger could be so fucking wet? If he weren’t also more than capable of sucking the chrome off said motorbike, John might be disappointed. Disastrously so.

But Mark is capable, very capable. Just what do they teach at those public schools, anyway? Well, for £25,000 a year perhaps cocksucking lessons _should_ be included. Among other things: Mark is fairly brilliant at all of it, as he’s demonstrating right this very second. John’s about to come just from the feel of Mark’s teeth in his neck, the touch of a clever surgeon’s hand on his cock. Mark is taking charge quite confidently, as any highly educated and very talented doctor should, flipping John on his side and flinging the towel into the pile on the floor. Hardly time for lube and a condom before he’s sliding into John, it hurts a bit but in exactly the right way, the lovely burn of pressure as Mark goes deeper and deeper.

“This what’s needed, love?” he says in John’s ear. “A nice hard fuck after a long hard day?”

“Yes— _please.”_

“I like it when you ask for things,” Mark says. His voice is calm under pressure, keeping a steady pounding rhythm as he muses. “You almost never do.” 

“Fuck me,” John gasps. “That’s all I—” he cuts off with a moan as Mark gets his grip around John’s hard and very needy cock again. The stroke of his hand exactly matches the stroke of his hips. It’s really quite impressive, could only be the result of years and years of practice from a young age. Public school boys! There’s nothing like them.

“I’ll give you whatever you want,” Mark says. That melty quality in his voice again, soft and wet, but John is able to forgive him in this moment because the rest of Mark is so hard, fucking John so fucking well. If they could just do this all the time, everything would be easy.

They don’t climax at the exact same time—Mark isn’t that good—but he manages to finish just a moment or two before he finishes John with one last neat twist of his wrist. John comes so hard that for a minute it all blanks out—the grinding grey fatigue of his work at the St. Bart’s A&E is lost in the golden glow of orgasm. 

For a few minutes after that, it’s great. It’s just how it should be, the two of them side-by-side on the big bed watching the late night news report. Hard work and then a hard fuck: It’s how every day should be.

In Mark’s defense, most days have been pretty good since John started staying here six months ago, after the worst and last fight with Lucy. She knew he was screwing around though not with who, and he might have been forgiven for it if he’d wished to be. What Lucy could not forgive was John’s final pronouncement that he had no intention of popping the question, not today or in ten years, and if the suspense is what had turned her into such a vicious little bitch, he could put her out of her misery right now. Lucy threw a £50 Diptyque candle at his head and told him to get out, get the fuck _out._ John got out, gladly. (He’s bearing his own grudge: It’s Lucy’s fault that he even knows what the hell a Diptyque candle _is._ )

He loves Mark’s flat. He loves it for its pub signs and its battered furniture, its giant televisions (three—lounge, study, bedroom) and shabby towels. John loves the utter, unabashed masculinity of it, not an overpriced candle or coordinating throw pillow in sight. His job in the trauma centre is burden enough. He doesn’t need tastefully decorated walls closing in on him when he’s home. Mark is a lovely flatmate—bit messy but not obnoxiously so, generous with beer and blowjobs. If the melty looks and half-meaningful conversations would only stop, John could be happy.

Perhaps it’s just a honeymoon phase. Not that he and Mark will ever have a honeymoon, this is only a happy interlude until John’s next girlfriend. He likes having a girlfriend—pulling random muff has never been his forte—and he loves having regular sex and dinner conversations. He’s a very good boyfriend if you don’t try to put his neck in harness. He made Lucy happy for a long time; it’s her fault she couldn’t stay pleased with the status quo. 

Once John and Mark settle in a bit more, Mark will go back to being entirely what he used to be and still is 90% of the time: a very good mate, willing to take the piss or pound John’s ass (or be pounded) depending on what the situation calls for. And should that prove to be the case, then this happy interlude can go on for as long as it likes. If it doesn’t—but it will. Mark isn’t Lucy, even if they both went to Oxford. 

John settles his head more comfortably against Mark’s shoulder, trying to concentrate on the news. The conflict in Afghanistan is heating up, 2000 more British troops deployed as part of the international peacekeeping force. John watches them enduring the desert conditions, small brown figures squatting on a parched landscape while a giant helicopter rains down dust on their heads. Shirtless men bending over trenches made of sandbags, strings of bullets draped along the fat canvas bags like the world’s deadliest streamers. More men in trenches, swathed in flak jackets and headphones as they feed shells into mortars like mother hens feeding baby chicks. Shots of soldiers speeding across a flat plane of sand in a bright yellow all-terrain vehicle. An RAMC doctor applying pressure to the chest of a young, tattooed man lying in the ditch next to a destroyed vehicle. There is blood on the doctor’s hands and fresh burns on the patient’s body.

It looks like hell. It looks like real work. The kind that makes holding down screaming kids who baptized themselves in boiling chicken fat look a little sad and pointless. Burned kids need tending, of course. But burned soldiers probably need it more. If nothing else, it’s unlikely their hysterical mums will try to punch you in the face for just doing your damn job.

“God, they couldn’t pay me enough,” Mark says, looking at the telly.

“No taste for adventure?” John asks.

“Hiking in Nepal, skiing in Aspen, chasing bronzed shepherds around the brown hills of Mykonos: That’s adventure.” Mark nods at the screen. _“That’s_ certain bloody death.”

 _“Memento Mori,”_ John says softly. “One way or another, we all go sometime.”

“Not like that. If you’re thirsting for adventure, we should go to Nepal. Did my gap year there, teaching English at a monastery in Kathmandu. Bloody brilliant, with scenery like you wouldn’t believe. Mountains that seem to touch the face of God. A real eye-opener, so far as experiencing another culture. Some of the monks were six years old. Can you imagine having your whole future planned out before you’ve had your first erection? Though I suppose the monks won’t have any use for _those.”_ Mark grins. “Where did you do your gap year again?”

“I didn’t do one. Too expensive.” 

“Oh. Right.” Mark has sobered a bit. “Well. You should have the cash for a vacay these days.”

“The Student Loans Company would beg to differ.”

“Right,” Mark says again, looking confused. “Are the payments really that large?” 

Of course Mark wouldn’t know. When Mummy and Daddy can shell out roughly £150,000 on just your secondary education, loan repayment isn’t exactly on your radar. John steps down on the spark of anger in his belly. Mark can’t help being a posh git. He was born that way.

“Large enough,” John says. He smiles to take the edge off the conversation, continuing: “It’s Pot Noodle and slum living for the foreseeable future, I’m afraid.”

“Slum living, eh? I wasn’t aware that you found the accommodations so lacking.” Mark glances around his shabby bedroom.

“Shocking state of affairs, really. I’d have lit out for greener pastures long ago if it weren’t for the beer and shagging. Suppose you’d better keep me drunk and well-fucked, eh?” 

“I’ve no objection to that.” Mark pauses. “On the other hand, there’s no sense taking chances.”

He reaches over to the bedside table and picks up his laptop, settling it on his knees. He opens it, and John can see what Mark was looking at earlier. It’s a real estate website. 

“I’ve been poking around,” Mark says. “Not seriously at first, but then I saw _this—”_ he clicks one of the entries on the website. “Think I’m in love, mate.”

John cranes his neck, squinting more closely at the pictures on the laptop screen. Mark’s sudden infatuation is not totally irrational. The penthouse loft apartment featured there is stunning.

“It’s a converted jam factory, isn’t that great?” Mark says. “One of the best loft developments in London, located just off Tower Bridge. Spaces almost never come on the market, and this—” he taps the screen—“is one of the best in the building.”

Yes, it is. Two generous bedrooms and two beautifully updated modern baths, a white lacquer bespoke kitchen and reclaimed oak floors. There is an office pod paneled with Swedish fir, and a rooftop deck with a hot tub large enough to seat eight. But the most gorgeous thing about this ridiculously gorgeous space is what can be seen from the deck. A panoramic 180-degree view of the London skyline, the dome of St. Paul’s to the London Eye, also visible from floor-to-ceiling windows that wrap around the entire space. Glimpse it from every room, see it further reflected in the mirrored columns and glossy modern furniture. A million-pound wetdream of a view.

Quite literally: “Two million,” John says. He looks up at Mark. “Nice dream, mate.”

“It’s a very sound investment,” Mark says. “The neighborhood is up and coming. It will be worth double that in ten years.”

“An investment which would require the possession of the £2,000,000 to begin with. Or at least a pretty substantial down payment. What’s that, 25%? Still half a million pounds.”

When Mark says nothing, just looks awkward in the same way as when John told him that he couldn’t afford a gap year, John sighs. He slides fingers down his face. “You have it. All of it.”

“My trust matures this year. A cash purchase would take the lion’s share. I’d probably put 50% down and finance the rest. That what Father suggests, at any rate. He says I’d make more from investing the other millions than I’d save in interest on the loan.” Mark says all of this like it makes things better. As if it makes any difference whatsoever. 

“Well,” John says, before the silence can grow too awkward. “Congratulations. It is a stunner of a flat. You’ll have to throw a party. What’s a good housewarming gift, coasters? You don’t use those. I’ll think of something. Don’t suppose you’d mind if I take over the lease here?”

Mark stares at him like he’s babbling. Which John is a bit, but not _that_ badly. “Why would you stay here?” he says.

“It’s convenient.”

“It’s a shithole.”

“You rented it.”

“Yeah, because it’s close to work and when you’re single and putting in 80-hour weeks, who cares where you hang your hat? But I’m tired of it—the poky hallway, dodgy plumbing, and a lift that seems to run mostly on optimism. We can do better.”

“We can do better,” John repeats slowly.

“Did you think I was leaving you behind?” Mark is smiling. “Is that why you’ve been looking like the Devil tweaked your balls?” He leans in, giving John an impulsive kiss on the forehead. “Don’t be bloody stupid. Of course you’re coming.”

“You’re asking me to move in with you?”

“You’ve already moved in. What I’m suggesting is a change of address. But I suppose you’re right, it’s more than that: our first real place together. We can do it up properly, no more beer signs and musty furniture.”

John peers at him. “You don’t like beer signs and musty furniture?”

“I did when I was 20. That was ten years ago. Time to grow up, don’t you think?”

“I don’t know. I’m just 27.” 

“You’re old for your age,” Mark says, giving him a fond little pat. “I know I’ve rather sprung this on you, but you’re the one who seems to be aching for something different. London SE1 isn’t Afghanistan, and thank God for that.”

John shakes his head. “I can’t go with you.”

Mark scowls. John doesn’t see him do that often. But then, it isn’t often that Mark doesn’t get his own way about things. “Why the hell not?” 

“You buy a £2,000,000 loft and I move in there as what? Your kept man?”

“Of course not. It would all be _our_ money. We’d set up a joint bank account for the household, we’d both contribute to it.” Mark pauses delicately. “I know I make more than you do, and you have those loan payment things, but who cares?”

 _Three times what I do,_ John thinks. _Not counting the trust fund. I bloody well care._ But what he says is, “We’ve been shagging six months, and you’re going to open a joint bank account with me? I don’t think your father would approve, do you?”

“Father will adore you—Mummy too. I’ve told them all about us. They’re dying to meet you.” Before John can even begin to process this, Mark rushes on. “Look, I know we’ve never talked about it. The whole thing just sort of happened. I’ve been edging around it for weeks, but every time I try to talk seriously you just want to have sex. Well, we’ve already had sex tonight, so it’s cards on the table time. Maybe we’ve only been shagging for six months, but we’ve been friends for three years. _I know you, John._ Fuck it, I fucking love you.”

John puts his hands over his eyes. “Jesus Christ.”

Gently, Mark pulls John’s hands away from his face. He puts a finger under John’s chin, forcing him to look up. “It’s okay,” he says softly. “I’m not asking you to say it back—not right now. I know you don’t like to talk about feelings. I have a few guesses why that is, above and beyond being English. I’m just asking you to give this a chance. I know you feel the same way. I’m not an idiot, I’ve had fuck buddies before. I’ve never had one look at me the way you do.” 

John is quiet a minute, looking at Mark. He sees the love in those green eyes, and it hits him then: He does love him. Maybe John loved Mark before he left Lucy. It should be a happy revelation, warming him to the core. It _does_ warm him. Like a splash of boiling oil in the face. 

Scalded, stunned, he lies back on the bed. He looks at the ceiling. “I have to think,” he says. “I’m sorry, Mark—I don’t know what to say.”

“Think all you want,” Mark says. “I know you’ll make the right decision.” He says this with the confidence of someone who’s never been denied something he really wants. He closes the laptop with a flourish and puts one of his strong, clever hands on John’s arm. (Clever indeed—half a million pounds of education in that hand. Half a million at least.) 

Mark gives John another fond little pat. The gesture is comfortable and possessive. Almost—marital. John just looks at the ceiling. Soon enough Mark lies beside him, putting his head on John’s shoulder. “Mummy gives Diptyque candles as housewarming gifts,” he muses. “She’ll want to throw us a party. We should make a registry.” 

“Um,” John says.

Mark yawns. “We’ll talk about it in the morning. I’m knackered.” He barely has the words out before he goes limp and snoring. 

John is awake much longer, staring at the telly. It’s showing _Top Gear,_ but that’s not what he sees. He lies there a long time, Mark sleeping on his shoulder. Afghanistan burning in his eyes.


	8. Chapter 8

** Sherlock, 2006 **

“I don’t believe it,” Ford says. His eyes dart around the room, taking in the flowered curtains on the long sash windows, the faded cushions on the sofa, the family portraits hanging on the green-papered walls. “Exactly the bloody same. Everything, just the same.” 

“Would you like to go over the house? We have time.”

“No, thanks. I remember what it looks like.” Ford’s eyes turn to the ceiling. “It’s the same up there, right?”

Of course it is. Number 19 Chapel Street has no doubt changed since it was built in 1820. But very few modifications have been introduced since Edmund Holmes purchased the property in 1871 from its original owner’s widow. Really, they are quite shockingly few: Sherlock has seen the daguerreotypes. From the checked tiles of the steps leading to the glossy black front door, to the layout of the double reception room and study here, to the configuration of the three stories of bedrooms above—all the same. Even much of the furniture is unchanged. Nods to necessity so far as modern electricity and plumbing goes, but little more. Let the flashy neighbors gut the interiors of their Grade II townhomes and turn them into Zen modern spaces, but the Holmes’ respect tradition. This house has stood through six monarchs and two world wars. For Ford to expect evolution in the years he’s been gone—he really has become thoroughly American. 

Ford lifts the lid of the hobnail candy dish on the sofa table. “Peppermint humbugs. Of course. I’d wonder if it was the _same_ candy, but I know Mycroft wouldn’t let anything sweet stay around that long.” Ford looks towards the study, as if expecting their brother to appear, Lucifer-like, at the mention of his name. “Where is he?” 

“Out of town. Business,” Sherlock says. 

“That’s our Mycroft, always working. Father was just the same way. I suppose he didn’t say where he was going? Somewhere dusty and war-torn, no doubt. I hear Afghanistan is lovely this time of year.” 

Ford grins at Sherlock. In the time since they’ve last met, his brother is no more changed than the house on Chapel Street. He is still suave and smiling, his perfectly barbered face and throat emerging out of stylish clothes. (Dove-grey shirt and tie and an uncharacteristically dark suit, a nod to the formality of tonight’s events.) There is no grey in his hair, no lines around his eyes, despite what must be a brutal work schedule: four films in six years. He probably doesn’t sleep any more now than he did when Sherlock lived with him in Los Angeles, but Ford could easily pass for a decade younger than his actual age. It’s slightly disconcerting, given Mycroft’s rapid descent into early middle age. Plastic surgery or necromancy? Ford is capable of either.

“Congratulations on the doctorate, by the way,” Ford says. “Dr. Holmes! Mother would be beaming. They’re all scientists and writers in her clan. We’ll have another Nobel Prize winner on our hands before you know it.” When Sherlock just shrugs at this: “Mycroft told me you’re working for the government.”

“I can’t talk about it.”

“My dear lad, I don’t care what nasty atoms you’re smashing together for queen and country,” Ford says a bit testily. “But I do hope you’re happy in the work.”

“It’s very interesting.” 

“Nice working conditions? Cappuccino machine in the break room and all that?”

“The facilities are excellent,” Sherlock says. 

He realizes how flat his voice sounds—has sounded, since Ford brought up the subject of his new position. He’s not sure why he can’t muster more enthusiasm. The work _is_ interesting, and the facilities _are_ excellent. The lab is, in fact, utterly amazing, as Mycroft assured him it would be, and his brother doesn’t throw around superlatives lightly. It would give Dr. Faust a raging and permanent erection. So why are his own feelings so flaccid? It’s not the mere fact that he’s working for his brother. Though comparisons with Mephistopheles are suitable in more ways than one, Mycroft is not a bad boss—Sherlock hardly sees him at work. He hardly sees anyone. 

Perhaps that’s the problem. The lab is very quiet. Like being immured inside a monastery, for all its steel and glass, its wafer-thin computer monitors and purring centrifuges. At first solitude was welcome, but after five months, Sherlock is fighting daily—sometimes hourly—the urge to scream. To dash test tubes to the floor, hurl his monitors at the white walls, anything to shatter the everlasting hush. To beat his head bloody against those walls, if only to add a bit of color.

Oddly enough, the feelings do not subside when he returns home, though the walls of 19 Chapel Street are quite intensely hued. No point banging your head here—who would hear you? The walls are thick enough to muffle any number of strange sounds. When Great-Uncle Evelyn blew his brains out in 1920, nobody knew a thing until his brother Tom found him the next morning, slumped at the desk with one side of his skull gone. They removed poor Evie, but of course the bedroom stayed the same. The desk wiped clean: Sherlock sits at it every day of his life. 

He emerges from his thoughts to find Ford staring at him. “You fucking hate it.”

“The job is fine.”

“Uh-huh,” Ford says. “You should come work for me. You know my special effects people are still using some of the techniques you came up with for _Brave New World._ Fuck the Nobel—we could have you an Oscar in three years.” 

“I don’t want to live in LA. The climate doesn’t agree with me.” Sherlock raises a pointed brow. 

“Things have changed, baby brother. I don’t do coke and orgies now, either. Who has time?”

The truth is, Ford never did them much. Probably the greatest illusion his brother ever created, his persona as the louche auteur, making masterpieces in-between bacchanals. Sherlock lived with his brother, he went to parties with him, and all his memories are of Ford chatting with a drink in his hand, usually with someone who possessed the almighty power of the green light. Overnight visits did happen, but not as often or as wildly as the gossip blogs reported. Mostly promising young actors, one at a time from what seemed to be a set list. The only time Sherlock ever saw Ford truly excited was on-set, shooting footage or watching dailies. However wild he might have been as a teenager, what really gets the adult Sherrinford off is work, and he works all the time. In that sense he is profligate, a reprobate of the most disciplined sort.

“You’ve gotten so quiet again,” Ford says. “I think it’s London that doesn’t agree with you.”

“I’m fine.”

“If you turned sideways you’d be invisible. How can you be that thin and live with Mycroft? I know the larders are stuffed with Turkish delight and Bird’s Custard, Mrs. Thompson’s sodding shepherd’s pie. Is our brother locking you in the attic and eating all your dinners? You can tell me.” He smiles to show he’s joking, but those steely eyes are watching closely. 

Sherlock has to step down on the spark of anger in his belly. What would Ford know about how they live? He hasn’t been here in 19 years. It’s that thought which makes him say it, though he never would have if Mycroft were here.

“Mycroft has been good to me,” he says. “He tries.”

“Unlike me,” Ford says, quirking an eyebrow. “I suppose I deserve that. We didn’t leave things very well, did we? But it was quite a cock-up, baby brother.” 

“I realize that. The Porsche—”

“Fuck the Porsche! Fuck the court costs and the bill for Promises, _and_ the three civil suits. Mycroft paid for all of it out of your trust, anyway. I don’t bloody care about the accident, except for the fact that you almost died. What a useless sodding tragedy that nearly was.”

“The delay on the film,” Sherlock says evenly. “That was even more tragic.”

“It’s true,” Ford says, after a pause. “I was pissed—in the American sense of the word. But mostly I was fucking terrified. Did I mention that you came within a hairsbreadth of meeting your maker? And over what? Violet and Victor? I warned you about those two; I warned you repeatedly. Romantic bloody bullshit. Who falls in love with two people at once, anyway? I hope you’ve developed a sense of proportion about things. Mycroft seems to think you have.”

Sherlock succeeds at controlling his expression: He’s much better at it than he used to be. “You’ve been discussing me.”

“Of course. What else would we talk about? Fucking football?” Ford sticks his hands in his pockets, ruining the elegant line of his jacket, a sure sign that he is actually affected. “Look, Sherlock, I know it’s been a rough year for all of us. Hell, a rough _life,_ growing up here.” His eyes glance around the room resentfully. “I should have been in touch more in the past six years, but you were the one who told Mycroft you didn’t want to speak to me. I went along with what you wanted, and perhaps I shouldn’t have. But here we are. I’m glad you agreed to come tonight, even though Vi and Vic will be there. You’ll have to endure, I’m afraid: It’s their film, too.”

“I don’t care about them,” Sherlock says. “I told you when you invited me to the premiere.”

“Still, you didn’t have to come. I know you’re not a cinemaphile these days. If you were, this wouldn’t be your cup of tea. A film adaptation of “The Yellow Wallpaper” ? I, for one, never thought it would blow up like it has. I thought only feminist scholars and freshmen lit students still cared about the damn thing. Only did it because it was Mum’s favorite story.” Ford pauses a moment, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “Why are you coming?”

“Why did you invite me?”

“I missed you.” Ford tilts his head. “Did you miss me?”

Sherlock just crosses his arms over his chest and leans against the mantelpiece. Ford grins. “You did, didn’t you? You fucking missed the shit out of me.” He suddenly sounds very American. “You totally want to move to California and be my BFF!”

“Oh God—” but before Sherlock can get further, Ford has bounded around the sofa table and enveloped him in a hug. The reality of him is momentarily encompassing—lemony cologne and a crushing squeeze. Making it even more overwhelming is the fact that Sherlock hasn’t touched a living soul since Dr. Patel, his dissertation director, shook his hand after the defense. 

It’s his brother’s damned cologne that’s causing Sherlock’s eyes to well up: He was always sensitive to it. But he doesn’t pull away. For just a moment—this moment—everything is all right. As if the last six years had never happened, and the hundred or so before that. As if the Holmes’ are normal people who can do the things normal people do: hugs, laughter, tears.

He finally disengages, blinking hard before regarding his brother again. Ford is misty himself, though he handles it more gracefully. “Pathetic twats, that’s what we are,” he says. “Mummy would be so ashamed if she were here.” He smiles, but his eyes are somehow sadder. Mournful.

Sherlock pauses a moment, carefully rearranging the Dresden shepherdess, jostled from her place on the mantelpiece by Ford’s sudden embrace. She was a wedding present from some great-aunt or other, at Siger and Violet’s wedding 38 years ago. One more relic of a dead time. 

Sherlock runs a finger over the crook of her tiny staff, wiping a flicker of dust away. (He won’t realize until later that this unusual tidiness was actually a way of steeling himself, that he knows the answer to his question before he asks. He won’t realize this until some hours later, standing under pulsing blue lights with music pounding in his ears.)

“Why isn’t Mother here?”

Ford stares at him a moment. “You’re not—” he stops. He runs hands through his hair, uncaring at the disarrangement of his perfect tousles. “Sherlock, my God. You don’t—” 

He stops again. Sherlock watches the reaction to the question wash downwards over him, his brother’s face twisting, hands clenching, feet setting wide apart, like he’s worried he’ll fall over. 

Ford grabs the Dresden shepherdess. He hurls her at the portraits between the windows. She smashes with a quite satisfying crash, leaving a dent and a smear of white dust all over the face of Grandfather Edmund. Not surprising that he was the target, given who resembles him to an astonishing degree. His heir, in both face and profession:

“Mycroft,” Ford whispers, voice shaking. “Motherfucker.”

For a moment the room is very quiet. All Sherlock can hear is Ford’s labored breathing, which is sounding uncomfortably close to sobs. When he can’t listen to it any longer, Sherlock speaks.

“Mother is dead.” 

The words feel strange as he says them. He feels like he should put more effort into them, but it’s as if his lips have gone numb. He should be feeling something now—shock or sadness or regret. There is a bit of the last—he regrets that this is all he feels. _Mother_ is just an abstract concept. At her most concrete, a nicely dressed woman sitting across from him during a few awkward restaurant meals. The signature at the bottom of birthday and Christmas cards, the recipient of thank-you notes for the checks in those cards. He received others for graduation from Eton, and again from university. Perhaps he should have realized something was wrong when his doctorate went unacknowledged. If he had thought about it—which he never did—he would have concluded that Violet felt he was old enough now for them to dispense with the charade of a relationship. A sensible reaction, he would have thought.

He doesn’t feel sensible now. He doesn’t feel anything. Perhaps that _is_ the sensible reaction? 

All this goes through his head in the time it takes Ford to turn his face away from the portrait of Mycroft’s lookalike, which he has been regarding with disturbing focus. “She died six months ago. Heart attack. Quite sudden.”

“I see,” Sherlock says. “I didn’t know.” 

“How could you not know? Violet was famous, in her way. It was in the newspapers, all over the web. Fucking hell, they re-ran the BBC series from the ‘90s on Channel Three!”

“I don’t watch television. I don’t pay much attention to the news, particularly entertainment news,” Sherlock says calmly. He is calm. Why shouldn’t he be? “Mycroft never told me.”

“He said you discussed it. He said neither of you wanted to attend the services in Sydney.” There’s a note of accusation in Ford’s voice, though it’s mostly drowned by his larger grievance. 

“I didn’t know,” Sherlock repeats. He considers. “Six months ago. I was preparing to defend my dissertation. Perhaps Mycroft thought the news would be—distracting.”

“Distracting? Our mother _died._ What the hell is—” Ford stops, taking a breath. “I’m not angry at you. I wasn’t, even when I thought you knew. I thought it was tit-for-tat. Mycroft—it wasn’t about distraction, you get that, right? He was paying me back for not coming to Siger’s services, and for what happened to you in LA. I’d been making noises even before Mum died of wanting to work things out with you. No doubt he thought I’d never make contact after you skipped out on Violet’s funeral. Measured me by his own yardstick and came up short, didn’t he? What luck that the film premiere coincided with one of his business trips.” 

Ford smiles, but it’s not a nice one. It looks like one of Mycroft’s. Then he gathers himself. “This is a shock. If you don’t want to come tonight, I understand.”

“I’ll come.” Sherlock doesn’t have to think about it. “I haven’t seen her in 16 years, Ford. I understand your relationship with her was rather warmer, but—” he stops. There is really no good way to say that you are quite unaffected by your mother’s death. The roiling in your gut is shepherd’s pie and an inevitable response to conflict between Mycroft and Sherrinford, even when one of them is dueling in absentia. He used to have the same reaction when he was six, peeking through a crack in his bedroom door and watching them tear each other to pieces in pure Parisian accents. He vomited once, which rather ruined the carpet but did stop the screaming. 

Ford’s lips twitch twice before he smooths his face into its habitual benevolent mask. “Yes. Of course. You never did know her well.” He pauses a moment. “She left you half of everything. Patrick made her a widow two years ago, so there were only her children as heirs. Cut Mycroft right out, but you—I suppose she realized it wasn’t your fault. It’s a tidy little sum. There’s a lot to clear up with creative rights and things, otherwise you’d have been contacted months ago. You’re going to have quite a few papers to sign.”

Sherlock merely nods. He’s never been concerned much with money, which is just as well. Between the accident and school fees, his trust is gone. His new position pays handsomely, though. Mycroft arranged for his checks to be sent right to the solicitor’s, with only a small fraction deposited into Sherlock’s bank account. A sensible arrangement, actually. He has almost no living expenses, and it’s not as if he’s out with his mates at pubs weekends, is it? 

“You’ve never read any of Mother’s books, have you?” Ford says.

“No. I don’t go in much for mysteries.”

“You should. She’s dismissed as Agatha Christie with sex, but her writing is quite something. I’d particularly recommend _The Shadow Son._ I think you’d find it interesting. _Illuminating._ I will make a film of it one day. See how Brother Mycroft likes that.” 

Before Sherlock can ask what this means, or why Ford has such a vicious look when he says it, Ford’s mobile rings. He opens it and listens. “Right. We’re coming.” He flips the phone shut. “That’s the limo driver. There’s a traffic warden giving him hell for blocking two parking spots. We should go and rescue him. Christ, Chapel Street really doesn’t change, does it?” 

He heads for the front door. Then he stops, turning again. “I was serious about California. You need to get the fuck out of here, Sherlock. I spent over a year on the damn “Yellow Wallpaper,” trust me when I tell you I recognize the signs of terminal claustrophobia. Stay much longer, and _you’ll_ be seeing evil doppelgangers crawling out of the wallpaper. Totally fucking bonkers, just like poor Charlotte. She had post-partum depression as her excuse—what’s yours?”

“Don’t be so dramatic.”

“If anything, I’m understating the case. You know who you sound like these days, right? You talk like him, you walk like him, you’re even starting to dress like him.” Ford’s eyes flick over Sherlock’s conservatively cut black suit. _“There_ is your evil doppelganger. Mycroft has already made you his prisoner, another year or two and you’ll be his clone. Stockholm Syndrome and shepherd’s pie: I can’t imagine a worse fate.” Ford shivers and shoves open the front door.

Sherlock follows, a hand to his stomach. His gut is still roiling, with mutton or with mutinous intent, he isn’t sure. He doesn’t know how Ford does it, summing up Sherlock’s secret rebellious thoughts with such neat dispatch. Sherlock doesn’t know if wants to go back to California, but—he’s realizing it this very moment—he doesn’t want to go back to the lab, either. He really will beat his head bloody if he has to face those white walls again. How did Ford know? Perhaps he had it wrong, it’s Sherrinford who is Mephistopheles, not Mycroft.

 _Perhaps it’s both,_ a voice whispers in his head. _Two Devils. Two bad fathers, and no mother. Not then, and now not ever. You didn’t stand a chance, baby brother._

Sherlock gives a shiver of his own, and follows Ford.


	9. Chapter 9

** Sherlock, 2006 (cont.) **

“They’re in her dressing room at the theater, right? She’s stripped off, he knows he’s in there—all the weeks of flirting, and she’s finally coming across. He drops trou, ready to go, but before he can even test the waters she says to him, ‘Not _there._ That entrance is only for my husband.’ She gets on her hands and knees and indicates his other option.”

“Did he do it?” Violet asks.

“Of course he did it! He admitted it had never really been his thing, but you only go around once. He says now and forever he can look back on the time he fucked a living legend up her still-quite-stunning arse.” Ford regards the others in the limousine smugly. “All right, two guesses each. Who is she?”

“Vanessa,” Victor says. “She’s always looked like a dirty fuck to me. It’s in the eyes.”

“She doesn’t have a title,” Ford says. “One guess left.”

“Damn. Okay, Judi.”

“Ew,” Violet says. “No! She’s got way too much class. I’m going with Helen or Julie.”

“God, I hope it’s not Julie,” Victor says. “I’ll never watch _Sound of Music_ the same way again.”

They all look expectantly at Sherlock. He blinks at them. “Laurence Olivier.”

Violet rolls her eyes. “Come on, Sherlock. You used to be great at this.”

“I don’t know. I don’t keep up with these things.”

“I’ll take his second guess, since Vanessa didn’t count,” Victor says. “Maggie.”

“That’ll put a different spin on _Harry Potter,”_ Violet says. She settles her bulk a little more comfortably against the plush seat. “Come on, Ford. Who is it?”

“All wrong. You were thinking much too contemporary. Oddly enough, Sherlock was closest. It was Vivien Leigh, Olivier’s wife.”

“As God as my witness,” Violet drawls, “I’ll never do anal again!” 

“Frankly my dear, I’m out of lube,” Victor says, and they both go off in fits of giggles.

“Wait,” Violet says, once they’ve composed themselves. “Vivien was never a Dame. _Biography_ did an episode on her. They don’t give titles to the nutjobs.”

“I didn’t say she was a Dame. I said she acquired the title of ‘Lady.’ Her husband was knighted in 1947.” Ford pauses. “Mind you, I don’t know why she was so particular. By all accounts, Larry liked backdoor action better than the regular kind. Maybe that was only blokes, though.”

“Tricky-tricky,” Victor says. “Ford wins Blind Item again. How do you remember this stuff?”

Ford shrugs. “Lack of anything better to do. Bonus fact: Larry wasn’t just knighted. He was made a life peer in 1970. Baron Olivier or some such nonsense.”

“His Uncle Sydney was created a real baron,” Sherlock points out. “Service to the Crown in India. The peerage died with him, though. No sons, just four daughters.”

“Like the Mitfords,” Ford says.

“The Mitfords had six daughters and one son. He died in the War.”

“That’s right, Thomas. A bloody Nazi, like his sisters Diana and Unity. The peerage went to David’s younger brother John, then to some nephew or other, I think.”

“Um, can we go back to talking about celebrities fucking?” Victor says. “Vi and I have no clue who any of these people are.”

Ford blinks, regarding the puzzled Americans on the opposite seat as if he had momentarily forgotten they were there. “Sorry,” he says. “Growing up, genealogy was rather an obsession with our set. We’re all related, you know. Like hillbillies. My brother Mycroft could probably trace the whole English peerage from memory, going straight back to the Plantagenets.” 

“The who?” Violet says. The limo hits a bump and she puts a protective hand over her belly. 

“Plantagenets. They were—never mind. A lot of old dead people. Here’s a nugget you will enjoy: Cousin Unity was fucking Adolf Hitler. May have had his baby, not that it did her any good. She tried to blow her brains out the day England declared war on Germany. _Missed,_ the stupid little bitch. Basically left her a drooling toddler for the rest of her life. Don’t know what happened to the Hitler brat. Probably became a Tory.”

“Mycroft says there’s nothing to the baby story,” Sherlock says.

“He would say that. It was the British Secret Service that covered it up,” Ford replies. 

“Your brother is a spy?” Violet says, eyes widening. “Like James Bond?”

“No,” Sherlock says, giving Ford a look. “He’s a civil servant.”

“Sure. That’s what he wants you to think,” Ford says. 

_“This isn’t Blind Item,”_ Sherlock replies in French. _“These secrets actually matter.”_

“My secrets matter,” Ford says, defiantly monolingual. “Billions of dollars in box office are at stake. Do you realize what a juicy gay rumor can do to a career? Or infidelity, in the case of a woman? Ask Meg Ryan.” He grins at him. 

Sherlock is about to tell him to shut his smug fucking mouth, but Victor, the peacemaker even when he has no idea what’s going on, cuts him off. “The Unity Mitford story would make an interesting film,” he says. _“Hitler’s English Mistress:_ Bad title, but we could think of a better one. Nazis are good box office. Guaranteed Oscars.” He turns to his wife. “Could you do an English accent, sweetheart?”

“For an Oscar? I could do a sex change.”

“Not right now, though,” Victor says, putting a fond hand on her belly. 

Sherlock sits back in the seat to regard them. He was surprised when the limo stopped off to pick up Violet and Victor at the Ritz. He hadn’t expected much contact with them this evening. He was even more surprised at the warmth of their greeting. The casualness of it, as if there had been no six-year separation. Their feelings—such as they are—appear unchanged.

They themselves are somewhat different. Still beautiful, but in new ways. Victor is sharp and polished in his slim grey suit, the cerulean shirt and tie making his eyes even bluer. (His face is as unlined as Ford’s: Neither has aged a day.) His blond hair has darkened to ashy brown, no longer spiked but brushed back, clipped short like an executive’s. That’s what he is now, Ford’s right-hand man and an up-and-coming producer in his own right. According to Ford, there are no coke-fueled orgies on Victor’s calendar, either. He’s a man with too much responsibility on his broad shoulders, and not just at work. A husband and father of two.

 _Almost two,_ Sherlock thinks, gaze returning to Violet’s belly. She’s not due for another three months. Violet is not the sylph of six years ago, certainly not in her present state. But she glows like a Madonna in her beaded ivory dress, auburn hair thick and curling lushly on her shoulders, skin porcelain-perfect except for those few amber freckles. A milky pallor extending from her heart-shaped face all the way to the ample cleavage revealed by her evening gown. 

“I know,” she says, noting his regard. “I’m a whale.”

“You’re a goddess,” Victor says, lips brushing her ear. “Look at those tits!”

“Shut up,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest. “That is so embarrassing.”

“Come on,” Victor says. “They’re right there. If you didn’t wanna show ‘em off, you’d have worn the Chanel. Good for you. Everybody here is enjoying the view. Well, me and Sherlock are. Ford’s too fucking queer.”

“I enjoy breasts,” Ford says. “Shown them often enough onscreen, haven’t I? Tits are great.”

“You’re all pigs,” Violet says, but she’s smiling. “Except Sherlock, he’s the only gentleman in this limo. You know it’s a sign of mommy issues, right? The obsession with breasts.”

Sherlock doesn’t have those. No mommy, therefore no mommy issues. He has no memory of Violet’s—the other Violet’s—breasts. Though he wasn’t weaned when father barred her from the house. Who told him that? Perhaps it was Mrs. Thompson, who has been with the family forever and knows all its secrets. It must have been she who told him, how he wouldn’t eat for days after his mother left. Spit up pablum and screamed and screamed. He doesn’t remember, of course. As if it never happened.

 _My mother is dead,_ Sherlock thinks. _Gone these six months. All of her, breasts too._

He puts his head against the window glass. His stomach has settled down but he has a splitting headache, as if the pain simply gravitated upwards, beating against the back of his eyeballs like a cocaine hangover. A powerful something in his head, waiting to break out like Athena birthing herself from her father’s skull.

“Hey, baby brother, you okay?” Ford asks. He puts a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. 

“I’m fine,” Sherlock says. “Bit of a headache.”

“It’s the fucking limo,” Violet says as they hit another bump. “What are these shocks made of, chewing gum?” She gives Sherlock a commiserating look, rubbing a hand over her belly. “I’ll throw up on the driver if it makes you feel better.”

“You haven’t had morning sickness in a month,” Victor says. 

“And it’s evening,” Ford adds.

“That’s a misconception,” Violet says. “You’re sick all the damn time: morning, noon, night. I threw up on Victor a dozen times. He deserved it, though. He got me this way.”

“I didn’t hear you complaining at the time,” Victor says. “Anyway, it took long enough.” He looks at Sherlock. “We’d been trying for over a year. I was ready to start test tubes and IVF and all that crap, but Vi said to be patient. Then _Wallpaper_ came along, and we decided to put baby plans on hiatus for awhile. Wouldn’t you know? That’s when we get pregnant, right as filming is about to start. That was our oldest, Victor Jr.”

“Good thing we’d already done most of the workshopping and stuff before filming got going.” Violet pauses. “It was a really intense process.”

“We made it through. You were awesome—and then some.” Victor gives Vi’s belly another pat. “She went in for her six-week post-partum check-up and found out we were expecting baby #2. I just about shit myself.” 

“Irish twins,” Ford muses. “Like Mycroft and me.”

“Has to be better than the regular kind,” Violet says. 

“Oh, hush,” Ford says. “You _won._ Ali’s a desperate housewife in Westchester.”

Violet frowns at him. “Not all the time.” 

“I coaxed Alice out of retirement to play the Lady in the Wallpaper,” Ford explains to Sherlock. “Scary as fuck, the audience is going to love it. Rather a charmed experience, the whole shoot. Even the pregnancy was no problem: Vi’s tits looked great. Very Victorian.”

“Steven liked them,” Victor says. His expression remains amused, but something in his voice when he says the name makes Sherlock look at him sharply.

“Steven?” he asks.

“Steven Fowler,” Victor says. “You remember him from _Brave New World._ He played Henry Foster, Lenina’s boyfriend. Blond dude, big fake smile. Blue eyes, nothing going on behind them. Perfect for playing a totally shallow and essentially worthless human being.”

“Not fair,” Violet says. “He’s great as my husband in _Wallpaper._ Steve’s a really good actor.”

“The empty vessels always are, sweetheart.”

“Everybody liked Vi’s tits,” Ford says, bringing things back to topic. “I had to bar the set the days we were shooting sex scenes: All the Teamsters kept lurking about. Steve’s only human.”

“That’s one theory,” Victor says. “Another is that he’s a fucking asshole.”

“Sherlock hasn’t seen the baby,” Violet says quickly. She pulls a camera out of her purse, turns it on and pushes a few buttons. “This is little Vic. Isn’t he sweet?”

Victor Jr. _is_ a handsome baby. A fat little boy with pale blond hair and the cheerful expression of a firstborn son, the darling of both parents. (Sherlock recognizes the expression from Ford’s baby pictures.) Victor Jr.’s eyes are large and blue; in the one extreme close-up you can see tiny flecks of gold in them. A sharp little nose, like Violet’s. A dimple in his chin that will one day make a definite cleft. Yes, a very handsome boy. It’s only genetic. 

“He looks just like his father,” Sherlock says, giving her back the camera. 

“Hell yeah,” Victor says. “That’s my boy.” His face lights up with pride.

Sherlock puts his head against the window again, wishing he were anywhere else. Even the lab.

“Honey, are you sure you’re all right?” Violet says. “Ford, maybe we should stop off and get him some aspirin or something.”

“No time,” Ford says. “We’re there.” He nods at the lights of Leicester Square passing by. 

“Maybe a drink,” Victor says. “The limo’s got everything.”

“That’s a good idea,” Violet says. “I’d join you, but I’ve had my glass of wine for the week.”

“No alcohol for Sherlock,” Ford says. “No intoxicants of any kind. Remember?”

“One drink won’t kill him. I never thought he had a problem, anyway.” Vi turns to Sherlock. “You don’t, do you? It was just a dumb accident.” Victor nods in agreement. He and Violet both smile at Sherlock, their beautiful faces lighting up. Sherlock can suddenly feel it, all their old affection for him. The _warmth_ of it, a feeling like nothing he’s known before or since. 

It wasn’t their fault. What happened to him, they aren’t to blame. They didn’t make him snort the coke and get behind the wheel. They aren’t responsible for his life since. The white nights in his boy’s bed, tortured by cravings, not just for the drug but for what came with it. Music. Connection. Emotion. They have no notion of his loneliness. Victor and Violet didn’t mean to hurt him; they can’t help being what they are. Nice, but totally shallow. Essentially worthless. 

Sherlock knows this. He realized it ages ago, or he would never have come tonight. On another night, the knowledge would have salvaged matters. He could have gotten out of the limo, which is even now slowing to a stop at the curb. He could have walked down the red carpet with Ford, amid all the flashing lights. He could have watched Violet smile for the cameras, glowing with satisfaction, a woman who has taken everything and paid nothing. He could have seen Victor smile at her with equal complacency. His knowledge of the nature of Victor and Violet (and his brother, the Mephistopheles in all of this) could have saved him on any other night. Perhaps even tonight, if Vi hadn’t done the wrong thing at just the wrong moment. 

She scoots forward in the seat. She puts a hand on Sherlock’s knee, as she’s done a thousand times before. She leans close and kisses him on the lips. Hers are the first lips that ever kissed him. They don’t taste like cherry lip gloss anymore. Violet isn’t bathed in floral perfume, as she was eight years ago. All he smells is the essential truth of her, a golden sensuality that reminds him of apricots, sweet and rich and divinely fleshed. She kisses him, and the gesture is not sexual but gentle, comforting. A mother’s kiss. 

“He’s fine,” she says. “Aren’t you, honey?” She softly pushes his hair back from his forehead. “Such a sweetie! You always were. We’ve missed you, Sherlock.”

It’s not a sensible reaction, his feelings now. If he were a normal person—not a Holmes—he could accept her easy empathy, shake it off with a smile as superficial as hers. But Sherlock’s feelings have never been normal. The years since LA have only emphasized what he always knew: He isn’t normal, he never has been. Six years since Violet and Victor shattered him to pieces, and he still isn’t whole. He feels the rage as if he’d been broken yesterday. 

His voice is calm when he speaks. Gentle, like he and Violet are the friends they were long ago. How lovely she is! It makes him sad, her beauty. He knows he’ll never be this close to it again. 

“You shouldn’t have missed me,” he says. “You really shouldn’t have, Vi. You should have begged Ford not to invite me. You can be so persuasive—you should have persuaded him. Then you would have been safe, maybe for the rest of your life. Your husband would never have had to hear your secret. The truth about little Victor.”

“Sherlock,” Ford says. “Stop.”

“What’s he talking about?” Victor says.

Violet says nothing. She just stares at Sherlock, her eyes wide. Terrified.

“Was it an accident or a deliberate decision?” Sherlock says. “I suspect it was the former. After all, a year is not long to try for a baby. You wouldn’t have been desperate yet, even if you knew the problem had to be Victor’s. You’re quite fertile, inconveniently so. That’s why you couldn’t bring yourself to terminate the pregnancy, despite your fears. Yes, Alice told me about the two abortions when you were a teenager. She always did talk too much after sex.”

“Shut up,” Violet whispers. “Sherlock, shut up. Please.” On any other night, the tremble in her voice would make him take pity. Not tonight. Violets do not get pity tonight. Beautiful, faithless women who left him bereft—he has no mercy for them.

He feels Ford put a hand on his shoulder, restraining, but Sherlock twists free. “Don’t,” he says to him. “Not a word. You brought this on.” Ford stares at him, his hand falling away like a dead leaf. Sherlock turns back to Violet.

“I do remember Steven Fowler,” he says. “A very handsome man. Stupid and shallow, but handsome. Did you know that cleft chins are a dominant trait? Much like those gold flecks in his eyes. Lucky traits for an actor, both of them. They show up wonderfully on film, I recall that from watching the dailies of _Brave New World._ Steven is photogenic and quite talented: You two had good chemistry then. I can’t imagine what it must be like now, after you made a child together. A son who looks just like him.”

Violet falls back on the seat with a cry, covering her face. Victor reaches out to her, the gesture of caring so ingrained that he almost goes through with it. Then he stops halfway. He glares at Sherlock, his face red with anger. “You miserable son-of-a-bitch,” he says. “You’re lying.”

“Oh, Victor,” Sherlock says. “I know from personal experience how free you can be with your wife’s favors. But not this free. Not even you are so nice. You hate Steve Fowler, and you don’t hate anyone. You’ve always known at some level. Cheer up: Cocaine abuse can lead to a low sperm count, did you know that? If you’ve been clean the past year, _this_ baby might be yours.”

The limo has stopped. Through the smoked glass he sees the chauffeur approach, but Sherlock moves quickly and opens the door. Outside are cheers, crowds, flashing lights. He looks back at the frozen figures in the limo. A sad tableau: Violet is huddled in the corner, weeping. Victor is staring at her like he doesn’t know who she is. 

Sherlock gets out of the limo. But before he can completely move away from the car, his arm is caught in a steely grip. He spins around and sees Ford. His brother’s expression is remarkably like Victor’s, the face of a man looking at a total stranger. 

“Why did you do this?” he says. “Jesus fucking Christ, Sherlock. Why?”

“It’s awful, isn’t it?” Sherlock says. “When things get so far out of control. It doesn’t happen to you often. Of course you knew about Steven and Violet, you probably encouraged it. Onscreen chemistry is so much better when the actors are fucking. You knew about the baby, too. You let your best friend believe that terrible lie, because to tell him would have cocked everything up. The show must go on, even now. I suppose you’ll see just how good an actress Violet is tonight, how much she and Victor want those Oscars. A scandal would ruin the film’s chances with the Academy: Female infidelity is as bad as being gay. Will Violet dry her tears and smile for the cameras? Will Victor shake Steven Fowler’s hand, or at least not murder him on the red carpet? I wish I could be here to see how it all turns out, but I’m going home. My head hurts.”

“You hate us,” Ford whispers. “You really do. Vi and Vic I see, but me? I don’t understand.”

“I told you why. You brought all this on. Not just in the limo, everything that happened in LA. My first night there, you had to make it so special, so _cinematic._ Twins and cocaine, blue lights and a Madonna soundtrack—do you have any idea what you did to me? You can’t know, Ford. You haven’t been here. Why are you here now? To take poor lonely baby brother back to LA? Do you think you can put a happy ending on things? _I am not one of your protagonists._ You don’t get to direct me, not ever again. Go back to California and stay there.”

Sherlock shakes off his brother’s hand and walks away. Away from the lights of the premiere, and from Violet and Victor and Ford, those relics of a dead time. But he doesn’t call a cab and go home. The thought of entering 19 Chapel Street now, feeling the thick walls close in—the pressure would kill him for sure, skull exploded into a thousand pieces like poor Uncle Evie’s.

He doesn’t go home. He just walks. In this mood he could walk to Paris, Channel be damned. 

But he doesn’t go to Paris—not yet. He leaves Leicester Square and walks down Charing Cross Road, past the National Portrait Gallery, past St. Martins-in-the-Fields, past the Trafalgar Square post office (the dome of St. Paul’s looming in the distance), until he nears Charing Cross Station. Quick stop at a cashpoint—finally, a use for all his accumulated paychecks. Soon he’s standing outside what lies beneath Charing Cross. For six years, he’s restrained himself. He hasn’t come here, or anywhere like it. But he’s always known that it’s waiting. 

Pushing his way through the crowd around the huge blue double doors, he looks up at the squat gold letters: HEAVEN. Not exactly how he pictured paradise, but the best he can find for now. 

He doesn’t have to wait to get in. Perhaps it’s his bespoke suit. Perhaps it’s the bank notes he hands the doorman. He walks right in. The space is cavernous, a brick barrel ceiling and wide-planked wood floors. It’s probably even larger than it appears, but the place is stuffed to the walls with people, which makes it hard to tell its actual size. The darkness doesn’t help, relieved only by flashing blue strobes. Up by the ceiling, above metal scaffolds that hold still more people, the club’s name appears again. HEAVEN is both a promise and a lie, for it’s not paradise that the nightclub resembles. Mephistopheles would be at home here.

Sherlock is at home. Six years, and it’s as if he’s never been away. The roar of the music, the push of the crowd, the glare of blue lights, the acrid tang of sweat and sex. He’s known it all before, during a hundred Hollywood nights. The only sense missing is the familiar taste in his mouth, as bitter as aspirin but somehow sweet. Cocaine, cocaine, the craving takes him like it hasn’t since those first remorseful days in rehab. He longs for it as you would a lover, the first and best of your life, a hunger that will haunt you to the end of your days. No remorse now: He’s as shameless as a baby screaming for the breast. 

How does he find what he needs? How can he pick out the one important person in the faceless crowd? The one with the sharp eyes amid all the glazed ones, the man who has what he wants? He can because he wants to. It’s too easy. 

Ten minutes later, he’s standing at the counter in the dim and musty toilet, cutting four fat lines. No razor of course, but a bank card does almost as well. It’s the one for his joint account with Mycroft, to be used only in emergency. This certainly counts as one. 

He bends over the counter, wishing he had a straw. As he does, he catches sight of himself in the mirror. He looks like a corpse in the sickly green light of the toilet, his hair wild, eyes wide and staring. He remembers this face from the Viper Room, and Skybar, and Chateau Marmont, and a hundred less savory locations. He’s not even stoned yet, but here it is. The coke mask.

 _I could flush the 8-ball,_ he thinks. _I could walk out of here and go home. Curl up in bed and sleep. It’s what Mycroft would do. If he were mad enough to come here, which he wouldn’t be._

In this moment, he misses his brother terribly. If Mycroft were waiting, Sherlock could go home. He could endure 19 Chapel Street as he has his whole life. He could even be comforted by those thick, eternal walls. Mycroft himself is a wall, one of grey English granite. Cold and hard, but something you can put your back against. Stalwart support, though it chills you to the bone. 

He can’t even phone him. He has no idea where Mycroft is. Syria, Uganda, Afghanistan—it could be any of those places or none of them. There is nobody at home. He is alone.

He feels a hand on his left shoulder. He looks in the mirror and sees that it belongs to a girl. A very pretty girl, if a bit sweaty and hollow-eyed, short black hair and dark eyes. She’s wearing a tiny pleather skirt of electric blue and a black sleeveless top. It bares her navel, which is pierced.

He feels a hand on his right shoulder. This one is larger, rougher, with purple-painted nails. It belongs to a boy wearing a heather grey t-shirt and tight jeans. He’s even prettier than the girl, with high cheekbones and spiky hair dyed platinum blond. His eyes are large and long-lashed, as green as a cat’s. 

He smiles at Sherlock like a prowling tom. “That’s a lot of blow.”

“Too much blow,” the girl says in Sherlock’s ear. “You can’t do it all by yourself. You’ll get sick.” She touches his cheek in a gesture of mock-caring. “Want some help, baby?”

“We love to help people,” says the boy. His purple-painted nails brush Sherlock, but there is nothing false in the gesture. They trace the crotch of Sherlock’s trousers with serious intent. “How about it, mate? Can we—help—you?” Another touch with each of the last three words.

“So cute!” the girl says, nuzzling Sherlock’s neck. “He looks like a sad little owl.”

“Oh, he’s not little,” the boy says, smirking and groping. 

_Get rid of them. Go home._ He can hear Mycroft’s voice as if his brother were here, instead of lost in some awful place. It’s the voice of _no._ He should be rid of these two, of course. Scruffy little cokeheads, part-time prostitutes at the very least. But he doesn’t, for a very good reason: He doesn’t want to. He takes the glass straw the girl is holding out. 

“Your assistance is appreciated,” Sherlock says, and bends over a line. _Yes_ —there it is. Six years, but it may as well be six seconds since his last hit. Bliss and heaven—gorgeousness and gorgeousity made flesh. How could he live without it so long? How much he’s missed it—the thought brings tears to his eyes. He blinks them away and does three more lines. 

Sherlock hands the straw back to the girl. Waves her and the boy towards the coke. While they hoover up lines like a couple of manic monkeys, he leans against the wall by the sinks. He runs fingers down his numb face. He feels his heart race in his chest. It seems to beat in time to the heavy bass of the song pounding from the speakers overhead. He doesn’t recognize the artist—he hasn’t kept up with these things—and it really doesn’t matter. The rhythm is the point of music like this—something to dance to, snort to, shag to. At least it’s not Madonna.

The boy turns away from the sink, his eyes glittering. He and the girl have demolished the 8-ball, but Sherlock doesn’t mind. There’s more where that came from. Always more. 

The boy slithers up to him. Coked-up and kissing-distance, Sherlock can see everything about the boy—history, hang-ups, it’s too easy. After all, he’s had him before. He’s had them many, many times, the boy and the girl. In dozens of dank club toilets, at a hundred houses in the Hills, he’s had them. Different faces, different accents, but just the same. He could tell you their life stories in two minutes. There’s so little to tell. 

“We have a place,” the boy says. “It’s not far.” He pauses. “Who do you want? Her or me?”

 _Doesn’t matter,_ Sherlock thinks. _Her or you, neither of you. If I tell you to fuck off, there’s more where you came from. Kids like you are more plentiful than coke. Rather cheaper._

He smiles at the boy. After all, it’s not his fault—or hers. They can’t help being ubiquitous. 

“Both of you,” Sherlock says. “I want you to fuck me while I fuck her. Is that a problem?”

“No,” the boy says. “But it will cost something. Cash, not coke.” He names a figure. It is, as predicted, less than the 8-ball. Sherlock nods; he doesn’t mind paying. He paid the first time—or Ford did. In LA, everything is prostitution. You offer your ass for sale just by showing up.

On their way out the door, Sherlock catches himself in the mirror. He doesn’t look wild now, though the drug is roaring through his synapses like his skull will burst open any moment. He looks calm. He looks like his brother—Ford or Mycroft, it doesn’t matter. Smug as the Devil.

On any other night, this might give him pause. Not tonight. He’s alone tonight—no brothers, no father. No mother—but that’s always been true. Violet is lost forever—all the Violets. So sad, you could cry. Sherlock doesn’t, of course. Before they leave the club, he scores another gram.


	10. Chapter 10

_Excerpt from Violet Vernet,_ The Shadow Son _(HarperCollins,1983). Reprinted by permission of the executor of the estate of Violet Huxley-Jones. All rights reserved._

** Chapter 37 **

Vivien slowly climbs the checkered front steps of 19 Church Street. She shivers as she goes. It isn’t just the winter chill: Too much had happened this evening. Vicar Anderson’s arrest, Alec and Miranda’s sudden engagement, and—Parker. Vivien won’t think of him now. The look in his eyes when she told him. What else could she do? She isn’t free. She can’t be, not for years and years. So many it may as well be forever. From the beginning there was only one possible ending for them. Parker, brilliant boy that he is, should have known.

She opens the front door. When she does, she is surprised to hear music playing. The house seemed so dark and quiet from the outside. Sheridan and Michael would have been in bed long ago, and Sheldon’s midnight feeding is still some minutes away. It must be Sander, though she hadn’t expected him to be back from his business trip. But Sander’s schedule is anything but fixed; he comes and goes as he pleases. 

She walks across the reception area, stifling the urge to turn on a light. She’s never liked this room, all the stiff Victorian furniture and the ancestors—Sander’s ancestors—peering down at her from the walls, their stern gazes trained in eternal disapproval. Years earlier, when she was first married, she thought she could convince her husband to let her do it up. Something bright and cheerful, chintz curtains and overstuffed sofas. Put Great-Grandfather Edmund in the attic where he belongs. She was so naïve then. To think that she could ever change this house, or the man who lives in it. Both of them frozen in time, as dim and remote as daguerreotypes.

Vivien stops outside of Sander’s private study. She learned long ago never to enter without an express invitation. The door is open, and she hesitates on the threshold, watching him play. The piano is an antique of course, so old that it has real ivory keys, another Houseman heirloom. The whole clan is musical in one way or another. Well, Sheridan isn’t, he’s a reader and a storyteller, like her. But Michael shows real promise on the piano. One more way he resembles his father.

Vivien is no expert on classical music, but she knows this song. It’s Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata,” a piece so popular it’s become something of a cliché in later years, its genius dimmed by a million clumsy repetitions at student recitals. 

Not so when Sander plays it. He brings it to life again, the melancholy and longing beneath the deceptively simple melody. A yearning that is like agony, made all the more deep and painful because it remains forever unspoken. To hear Sander Houseman play Beethoven is to feel his secret soul made manifest, so much passion wrung from cracked and yellowed keys. 

She fell in love with him in a moment exactly like this, standing silently, watching him play. In this instant Vivien knows them again, the feelings she once had for her husband. She feels the _hope_ she had, in that dim dead year of 1968. That she could be the one to reach him, to breach the stone walls surrounding him. But her husband is unreachable, inexorable. She was a silly little fool to ever think otherwise. The glimpses of him she gets at times like this are nothing more than deceptions. Momentary illuminations, doomed to fade. No realer than moonlight.

The last of the melody dies away. For a moment, Sander’s fingers rest gently on the keys. Then he folds his long white hands in his lap. He raises his head and looks at her. The stark light of the piano lamp makes his angular face seem that much harsher. Sander was never handsome, though when he was younger his cheekbones gave him an appealing, artistic look, like a slightly starving poet. But as he’s grown older, his features have taken on a distinctly vulpine appearance. The cold cunning that was always part of his personality, and is now its most salient feature, is plain to see. Or maybe others don’t see it—certainly her friends consider Sander no stranger than their husbands, all those boring bankers and tedious traders. But Vivien sees. She feels his chill, even in their most intimate moments. Can anyone blame her for seeking another source of warmth?

“You’re early,” she says to him, unable to stand his silent regard any longer.

“You’re late,” he says. “It’s after 11.”

“The Bennetts’ reception,” she begins. “Something happened—”

“I heard,” he says. “I always thought there was something not quite right about Joe Anderson. He smiles too much, even for a vicar. Well, he won’t find much to grin about when he’s locked away at Pentonville. Even the other murderers don’t like child killers. I give him a year before they find him in the showers with a knife in his back. They ought to put a bullet in his head right now, and save us the cost of housing and feeding him. The Russians do have the right idea about some things.”

“How do you know what happened?” she asks. “He was only arrested an hour ago.” Even as she speaks, she realizes it’s a stupid question. It’s Sander’s job to know things. As little as she knows about his work, she knows that. But his uncanny abilities still give her pause, even after 13 years of marriage. A man clever enough to worry any woman, especially a fallen one. But Sander stopped paying attention to her long ago, his eerie prescience focused elsewhere. Plus she’s been careful, very careful. At his most myopic, Sander is twice as observant as other men.

Sander gives a non-committal shrug, which is exactly the reaction she was expecting. Vivien leans against the door frame, sighing tiredly. “Anyway, it’s over now. I’m going to feed the baby and go to bed.”

“Over.” Sander rises from the piano stool. “Yes, it is. More than you suspected, my dear.”

“What?”

“I’m divorcing you,” he says. “You have until morning to get your things out of the house. But you aren’t to go near the upper floors, is that clear? You won’t disturb my sons.” He says this in the same calm way that he suggested putting a bullet in Joe Anderson’s head.

Vivien stares at him for a full ten seconds before she can answer. “Sander, I don’t—”

“That fucking Irishman,” Sander says, and though his voice is still calm, there’s a note in it that makes her knees turn to water. “I had him in my home, Vivien. I shook his hand, I broke bread with him at my great-grandmother’s dining table. I _helped,_ when that policeman was ready to have you two committed for your fanciful tales. This—this is how you repay me, by screwing Parker James in his shitty Soho flat. Not just once. It wasn’t a momentary lapse of reason. You did it repeatedly. Did you enjoy yourself, my dear? Was it like those Barbara Cartland novels you fancy so much? I hope it was. I hope he’s what you want. Because he’s all you have now.”

Inwardly, Vivien is having such a strange reaction to Sander’s words. Fear, of course, at the expression—no expression—on his face. But also relief, as the weight of her secret finally lifts. Also, can it be so? The faintest spark of satisfaction, at the realization that her husband had lifted his head from his briefcase long enough to notice. Sander has been paying attention, after all.

“You’ve been following me.” 

“I wasn’t,” Sander replies. “I’ve more important business to conduct than spying on my foolish wife. Not to mention the fact that I actually trusted you. My own bit of foolishness, I suppose. But someone was watching. Someone suspected you and your Irishman from the beginning. He would have informed me of your betrayal before this, but he wanted to be absolutely sure. He said he knew the consequences of passing on bad intelligence—the damage it could do to one’s reputation. Very conscientious: One has to admire his instincts.”

“Who?” Vivien demands. “Julian Mortimer, that little mutt?”

“It’s true,” Sander says. “My assistant doesn’t like you. He thinks you’re stupid. Don’t take it personally—he thinks that about most people, and he’s mostly right. No, my information comes from another source. An unimpeachable one.” Sander looks at the clock on the piano. “You’d better get cracking. You have an awful lot of clothes. Shopping always has been an outlet for your—agitations. What a pity you couldn’t just shop, my dear! I really didn’t mind the bills.” He gives her the fond smile of an indulgent husband, but his eyes don’t smile. They just watch.

“I broke with Parker,” she says. “Tonight. I was going to _try,_ Sander.” 

She shouldn’t try to justify herself to him, not now. But it’s difficult to break the habits of 13 years. Seeking the approval—the understanding—of this cold and brilliant man. Seeking it, and almost never receiving it. Only two occasions stand out clearly in her mind, when Sander regarded her with unstinting love and approval. The days Sheridan and Michael were born, two lovely summer Sundays less than a year apart. (Not the day her youngest was born, the rainy Tuesday in January. Sheldon was an unwelcome surprise in more ways than one.) 

Sander shrugs and says nothing. Of course he doesn’t care. What she has done is what matters to him, not what she might do, all her good intentions. Whatever promise the future may hold, a Houseman is always obsessed with the past. She could weep rivers of tears, vow eternal fidelity, spend the rest of her life in penance, and he would never forgive her past transgressions.

 _It really is over,_ Vivien thinks. It should shock her, the sudden death of her marriage. But she isn’t shocked. It’s been dead for years—at least one year, anyway. It died the day Sander came late to the hospital, looked at his third son sleeping in her arms, and gave her one of his famous shrugs. _Another boy,_ he said. _Ah, well. Your mother can see you home, my dear. I have a meeting at Whitehall. Can’t be missed, I’m afraid._

“I’ll leave,” Vivien says. “I hate this house, I always have. I’ll give you your divorce. But you won’t take my children from me. They’re my sons, too.”

“Go and pack,” Sander says. “Save the list of demands for your solicitor.”

Vivien turns and walks quickly to the stairs. She takes them two at a time, but she doesn’t stop at the second floor, the bedroom she and Sander share. She doesn’t even stop at the third floor, where Sheridan and Michael are sleeping. It’s not them she feels so protective of, not just now. She runs up the stairs to the fourth floor, with its two tiny bedrooms and even tinier bath, nestled under the sloping eaves. As she exits the landing, she glances at the door of the nurse’s room—mercifully closed. She couldn’t stand Geraldine’s interference at present. (Sander’s choice for a baby nurse, not hers.) Vivien eases open the door of the other bedroom.

It’s a cheerful little space, for all that it’s so small. The main rooms were beyond her grasp, but she’s held some sway here. On the walls are framed prints from her favorite childhood book: Alice and the Cheshire Cat, Alice and the Queen of Hearts. Alice grown ten feet tall, Alice shrunk very small, lovely Alice with a crown upon her head, at last proclaimed a queen. The paint and the curtains pick up the colors in the tinted prints—lavender, rose, buttercream—as do the cushion on the rocking chair, the pad on the changing table, the linens in the cot. With this last baby, Sander let her have her way in the nursery, indulge herself in pastels to her heart’s content. They were having a girl, after all. Sander had been sure of it. 

His delight in the notion surprised her. _We’ll name her after my mother,_ he said when Vivien told him the news, putting a hand on her stomach. Vivien had swallowed her ire—as far as monikers go, _Harriet_ would not be her first choice—and focused on basking in her husband’s attention. It had been a long time since she felt it. 

The name Sheldon was also his choice. She hadn’t expected him to have an opinion, not after that day in the hospital. But choose he did, another family name from some ancestor or other. She should have realized what it meant. Sheldon is his, as all the children are his. Whether he wanted three sons or not, he has taken rightful possession. Vivien was just a vessel.

 _No._ She is surprised by the depth of her anger. _Not his. I carried them, I’ve raised them. All he’s done is pay. He doesn’t get to keep them, he doesn’t deserve them. Especially not this one._

She leans over baby Sheldon’s cot. He’s been the smallest of the three, the most fragile. More colds and croup and rashes than the other two put together: It’s why she’s nursed him so long. The pediatrician suggested it and she hasn’t minded, despite the inconveniences. It’s a special feeling to be needed so much by anyone. It won’t last—she wouldn’t want it to—but for now it’s rather wonderful, being the most important person in this small creature’s existence.

She puts a gentle hand under his head and another under his bottom. She picks him up. He stirs and opens his big eyes, which are only now losing their baby blueness, becoming a pale, piercing grey. He won’t be the most handsome of her sons—that’s Sheridan—but he will be a striking man, she’s sure of it. Not handsome but _arresting,_ the kind of face you won’t forget, were you to pass him in a crowd. All her sons are special, but this last, fragile one—he will be more than that. He will be free. Not constantly rebelling against Sander, like Sheridan, or too soon falling under his father’s sway, like Michael. Sheldon is only beginning to walk, but if she has her way, soon he’ll be running. In whatever direction is opposite from where her husband happens to be. 

Sheldon is growing restless. He nuzzles at the front of her gown, looking for the sustenance habit has taught him is coming. She’s pulling the wide neck of her gown off one shoulder when the voice comes from behind her. It freezes her. She’s heard her husband sound irritated many times, but she’s never heard him like this. Cold rage drips from every slow, enunciated syllable.

“Put him down.” 

She turns around, clutching Sheldon to her. “He’s hungry, Sander.”

“He’s been eating solid food for months. I know—I spoke with Geraldine this evening. You should have weaned him weeks ago. Put him _down.”_ Sander takes a few steps into the room. It’s so small, soon he is looming over her. At the same time, Sheldon’s nuzzling has become more demanding. He’s pulling at the front of her gown, making small, frustrated sounds. Her body is already responding to his neediness, breasts tingling as her milk begins to let down.

“Ten minutes,” Vivien says. “If you break his routine, he’ll cry all night. Ask Geraldine.” She hates the pleading in her voice—she never wants to ask this man for anything again—but she can see the front of her silk jersey gown growing wet.

“What did I—” Sander takes the baby by the shoulders and starts to pull him away. Sheldon screams, such a heartrending sound that Vivien feels like she’s being ripped in two. It even gives Sander pause. He stops, and for the first time tonight she sees true emotion in his face. He still looks angry, but more than that, he is confused. She doesn’t understand why the expression sits so oddly on him, until she realizes that she’s never seen it on his face before. 

“Please,” she says. “Ten minutes. What difference can it make now, except to him?” She looks at the baby, who is no longer screaming but whimpering, his small hands plucking helplessly at her damp evening gown. She sees another drop of moisture fall on the fabric, and realizes that tears are streaming down her face. She looks up at Sander. _“Please,”_ she whispers.

His mouth works for a moment. He opens his lips and takes a breath, as if he has a great deal to say to her. But all he actually says is, “Ten minutes.” He spins around sharply and leaves the room, shutting the door behind him. 

With a sob that is half-relief, half-nerves, Vivien finishes disarranging her clothes. She puts Sheldon to her breast. After more than a year he’s an old hand at this, and he latches on with no trouble. She didn’t think she could relax after the last half-hour, but as soon as he’s suckling, Vivien’s heartbeat slows, her mind seems to clear. The rush of good hormones that normally accompanies feeding her son, and often puts her right to sleep, is helping to calm her now. For the first time since Sander announced the divorce, she can think.

She will leave tonight. She’ll go to Parker’s—he’ll take her back, there’s no question of that. At his tidy little Soho flat (it’s not shitty at all, Sander is such a snob) she’ll be able to make plans. She’ll contact a solicitor in the morning and start making arrangements. Her husband’s family is old and well-connected, but it’s not as if she comes from paupers. Her brother will help, perhaps even her mother, once Mum recovers from the news that she’s left her husband. She and Parker will find a house, she’ll get custody of the boys. She won’t have Sheridan and Michael long, they’re off to Eton in another year or two, but Sheldon will be happier growing up away from this mausoleum. Vivien recalls the night Parker came to dinner, how lovely he was with the baby. In an hour he showed more interest in him than Sander had since Sheldon was born. 

Sheldon’s feeding has slowed, his little body relaxing in her arms, long lashes fluttering over his grey eyes. She holds him closer, kisses his pale brown curls. In this moment, her love for him almost overwhelms her; she feels the tears come to her eyes again. 

(If someone had told her that these are her last minutes with her youngest son, she wouldn’t have believed it. Not the last time she will see him, but the last time she will hold him. The last time she will ever feel that he’s _hers._ No, she wouldn’t have believed. If she had, she wouldn’t have been able to bear it. The pain would have killed her, struck her to the wormy floorboards then and there. But Vivien won’t believe it. Not for some time.) 

The door opens. “Ten minutes,” Sander says. “Give him to me.” 

Vivien pulls up the bodice of her gown. Reluctantly, she hands the boy to his father. Sheldon, full and content now, blinks his sleepy eyes at Sander. Sander holds him easily—he got enough practice with Sheridan, when the idea of being a father still held interest and novelty for him. He looks down at his youngest son with more attention than he has ever shown before. Something intent in his gaze—assessing.

It takes Vivien a moment to understand what the look means. When she does, her face flushes. “He’s _yours,_ Sander.”

“I know,” he says. “He looks like my Uncle Evie. The one who blew his brains out downstairs, poor bastard. He was at the Somme—they didn’t understand shellshock then. His parents were perplexed by his behavior. Not to mention his morphine habit.” 

Sander’s chin jerks up. “I can see he’s mine. But the fact that you have to _reassure_ me of it—” His hands clench, and Sheldon squeaks. Carefully and deliberately, Sander puts the baby back in his cot. When he turns to face her, he is calm again. 

“I’ve called a cab,” he says. “I’d rather you didn’t stay until morning, after all. I’ll have Mrs. Turner pack your things and send them to you. Soho, I presume?” When she nods, a brief spasm distorts his face, like a man hit by sudden pain. Then it smooths, becomes blank.

He steps aside so she can pass. She stops with her hand on the knob, and looks at him a final time. “This is only temporary,” she says. “I won’t let you have the boys. I’m their mother.”

“You’ll give me what I want. And you’ll take what I choose to give, without complaint.”

Vivien raises her chin. “If I don’t?”

“You’re a selfish creature, Vivien,” Sander says quietly. “At times a foolish one. But Jules Mortimer is wrong, you’re not stupid. I would not have married an idiot and taken the chance of idiot children. We’ve been married for 13 years. Knowing the sort of man I am, you must see that my patience is at an end. Do you really not know what will happen if you test it further?”

In later years, Vivien will wonder why she answered the way she did. She wasn’t baiting him—she knew better than that. Perhaps it was because he _had_ overestimated her. Until this moment, she didn’t know what sort of man her husband was. Had she known, she would not have stayed with him for 13 years. Not 13 days. 

But right now she doesn’t know, and she wants to. Maybe she is a foolish creature, but she is also a curious one. It’s what started her investigation into the first murder, poor little Robbie Cooper. Curiosity led her to Vicar Anderson, and also to Parker, and everything that came after. 

Vivien stands her ground. She meets her husband’s gaze. “What will you do?” 

He answers without hesitation. 

“I’ll have Parker James killed,” he says. “They’ll find him in a park somewhere, or perhaps in the woods. Shot through the back of the head, left naked and exposed. Wild animals will have gnawed the soft parts away—eyes, tongue, genitals. I’ll make sure you receive photographs of the scene, and you’ll look at them, won’t you? My curious girl. Then you will have to live with it, the knowledge that you not only cost your boys a mother, you cost your lover his life. Can you see him now, my dear? I know you can, you have such a good imagination. It must be all the novels you read. In the months to come, when you consider giving me trouble, I want you to picture Parker’s masticated corpse. Picture it, and don’t be more of a fool than you already are.” 

“You won’t,” Vivien whispers. “If you touch him—”

“Nothing will happen. You won’t expose me. I’m not a pedophilic vicar.” Sander smiles at her.

It’s the smile that breaks her. The easiness of it, the _sureness._ He threatens to kill her lover with the same confidence that her friends’ husbands give stock tips. He promises death like someone who has done so many times before—and always kept his word. 

With that smile, Vivien sees his secret soul. She sees what he’s been hiding beneath his music and his silences, all of that cool, ironic distance. This is what he is, _this_ is what’s been sleeping beside her for 13 years. She thought Joe Anderson was the dregs of humanity—what a fool! Sander Houseman is so much worse. Her husband, the man who fathered three sons on her. 

The knowledge makes her sick—sick enough to die. But Vivien doesn’t. Instead, she runs. She flees down the stairs, gripping the banister to keep from falling, feet stumbling in her high heels. She doesn’t even grab her coat on the way out. She flees 19 Church Street like her soul depends on it. She streaks down the checkered front steps and throws herself into the waiting taxi. 

“In a hurry, love?” the fat, greying cabbie says. “You look like the Devil is after you.”

“No,” Vivien says, after taking a moment to catch her breath. “The Devil is divorcing me.”

“Bad luck.” The cabbie turns around with the air of a man who’s heard it all before.

As the cabbie starts the engine, Vivien looks up anxiously. The house is not all dark now. On the third floor, there is a light shining in one of the windows. Framed against the glowing yellow rectangle is a shadow, staring down at her. Vivien jumps, for a moment sure it’s her husband. Then she gathers her wits, and realizes it’s the wrong size for Sander, and the wrong floor. The third floor is where the two older boys sleep. The light is in the left-hand window—it must be Michael who is awake. Yes, it is Michael. She recognizes his slightly chubby silhouette. She can’t see him very well from this distance, and perhaps it’s her imagination, but there seems to be plaintiveness in his posture. _Come get me, Mummy,_ it says. _Come get us out._

“I will,” she says. “I’ll come back for all of you, darling boy.” 

As the cab pulls away, he waves at her. _Don’t forget us. Please don’t forget._

“I won’t forget, dearest. I _won’t_ leave you.” The cabbie is staring at her in the mirror, and she doesn’t give a damn. She puts a hand to her lips and blows her middle son a kiss. He leaves the window then, perhaps because he can no longer see her. His room goes dark. 

Vivien turns around, settling herself against the seat of the cab. She’s rumpled and milk-stained, her hair coming down in tendrils around eyes whose mascara has gone smeary. She is sure she looks a fright, but she doesn’t care. She is filled with resolve: She will rescue her poor sons. Her husband might be a monster, but she is a mother. She has to be strong for her boys—brave.

The truth doesn’t occur to her then. She doesn’t see that not all of her boys will want rescuing. She doesn’t know yet that it’s much too late, it’s _always_ been too late for one of her brood. She doesn’t realize—though perhaps she should have, given his prior behaviors, his resemblance to all those disapproving Houseman ancestors—that young Michael’s gesture at the window could be taken another way. He wasn’t asking for help at all. He was saying something else to her, a very different sentiment altogether. 

_Goodbye, Mummy. Good riddance._


	11. Chapter 11

** Sherlock, 2007 **

He stands on the threshold of Mycroft’s study, watching his brother play. The music is Ravel’s _Gaspard de la Nuit,_ one of the most beautiful piano pieces ever composed—and one of the most difficult. A triptych of movements designed around three striking images drawn from the works of Aloysius Bertrand, father of the French Symbolist poets. The first movement is “Ondine,” ode to a seductive water nymph, all sinuous flourishes and aqueous triplets. The third movement is “Scarbo,” the demon, his apocalyptic double-note scales a gauntlet for the right hand. Between the two, centerpiece of the work, is “Le Gibet,” nightmare images of a hanged man in the desert. The challenge there is not climax but endurance: echoing throughout the second movement is a B-flat ostinato, a chord like the sound of a great, deathly bell. Its toll must continue unchanged while all of the other notes cross over each other, as the dynamics of the piece shift and shiver. 

It takes real dedication to play _Gaspard de la Nuit_ correctly, but more than that it takes desire, an obsessive mixture of patience and passion which few musicians possess. Mycroft first began on the piece at the age of 15. Sherlock remembers waking early one rainy Saturday, coming down to the reception area and seeing his brother in the study, repeating one page of sheet music over and over. Stopping at the first mistake and trying again, and again and again, until it was perfect. The sound was enough to drive you mad, but Siger sat at his desk writing composedly, his hand only pausing on the page when Mycroft would hit a particularly sour note. The strangest satisfied smile on his face whenever his middle son would stop, swear under his breath, and try again.

Sherlock was not allowed into his father’s study. Though he never was much for the piano, so there wasn’t much point, was there? But it seemed as if Mycroft was always present whenever he was home from Eton or Oxford. When he wasn’t playing, he was sitting in the guest chair and talking quietly with his father. (The subject of their conversations Sherlock never knew, for they always stopped the instant he came within earshot. He has several good guesses, though.) 

Once Mycroft graduated from Oxford and came back home, the study was as much his own as his father’s. Siger was ill by then, more than he would ever let on until the very end, when even his considerable powers of deception had begun to fail. But even in those last days, when he was so sick from emphysema he could scarcely move, scarcely breathe, he still liked to hear Mycroft play. Though Mycroft’s tastes have always run to the more modern, atonal artists, he indulged the old man with all of Siger’s favorites, Bach and Tchaikovsky and his beloved Beethoven. 

But one night—his final night—Siger specifically asked for Ravel. It was the last music that his mortal ears ever enjoyed, unless one counts the sound of celestial trumpets as he ascended from this Earth. (That his father is in Heaven Sherlock has never doubted; a man with equal access to palaces and secret bunkers during his life would not be thwarted by a pair of golden gates.) But the request for _Gaspard de la Nuit_ is suggestive. It literally translates as _The Night Treasurer,_ the guardian of all that is dark, and secret, and precious. But that isn’t what it really means.

 _Gaspard de la Nuit_ is a very old French term for the Devil.

From long-established habit, Sherlock stands in the doorway quietly, almost tentatively. His father has been dead for ten years, but Sherlock half-expects to hear that deep, sonorous voice dismissing him. More rationally, he recalls when he was 13, and Mycroft found him poking through papers that had been left on the desk in an attaché case. It had a lock, but Sherlock has always been clever with those, his fingers as nimble with a hairpin as Mycroft’s on ivory keys.

Mycroft needn’t have worried—the papers were in Arabic—but he _was_ worried, enough to give Sherlock his first black eye. Siger’s fingers were cold when he lifted his youngest son’s chin and inspected the damage. _Go see Mrs. Thompson. She’ll give you some ice,_ he said. Then his grip tightened. _I catch you here again, and I’ll make Mycroft’s handiwork look like mother’s kisses._

So Sherlock stands quietly, you could say tentatively (though there is nothing undecided in his mood at present). He sees Mycroft as close to rapturous as he probably ever gets, his razor-like perceptions momentarily dulled by the music. Seduced by “Ondine,” that wicked water nymph: Not surprising that it takes a woman of otherworldly powers to breach Mycroft’s defenses. Blind to Sherlock’s presence, deaf to everything but those flirtatious triplets, his expression as open as it ever becomes, totally transported. 

Then “Ondine” ends with a last quicksilver flash. Woods and water swirl away, the air grows cold. With the tolling of the bell, the hanged man appears. Mycroft’s expression changes, becomes more pensive, somber. You might even call it regretful.

 _Even now I could forgive him,_ Sherlock thinks. _If he looked up with that sorrow in his face and apologized to me, I could accept it. But it’s not real—his emotions are not. The passion and the penitence, it’s only music. The light is just a momentary illumination, before he goes dark again._

Sherlock has to speak; he can’t listen to the music any longer. One more lie his brother has told.

“Mycroft,” he says.

His brother blinks and looks up, hands stilling on the keys. “What are you doing up?” he says. “It’s almost midnight. You’ve got work in the morning.”

“So do you.”

Mycroft’s lips stretch in something like a smile. “Yes, but I’m not on probation. I’ve gone to considerable trouble to reclaim your job for you. The least you can do is not show up yawning on your first day back. Go to bed.” His tone is light, but the note of command is unmistakable.

Better to just say it and get all of this unpleasantness over with. “I’m not going back to the lab,” Sherlock says. “In fact, I’m moving out tomorrow.”

Mycroft sighs. It’s more weary than irritated, like a mother hearing her little boy declaim that no, he won’t go to school and fingerpaint. Faint as it is, the sound sets Sherlock’s teeth on edge. 

“Sherlock, don’t be—”

“Yes,” Sherlock hisses. “I will be. I’m leaving this house in the morning. I’ve found a flat, I’ve signed a lease. I took my things over today while you were at work.”

“Unlikely,” Mycroft says. “Mrs. Thompson—”

“Goes to see her daughter on Sunday afternoons. I left just after she did and came back an hour before she returned. Moving didn’t take long. There isn’t much I want from this place.”

Mycroft stands up from the piano stool. It’s been years since his brother towered over him, but Sherlock has to steel himself to keep from shrinking back. Old habits are hard to break, but he’s determined. He’s had practice seeing unhealthy patterns in the past few months. He’s had _help._

“I wondered,” Mycroft says. His gaze sweeps over Sherlock’s face and form, coolly assessing. “You’ve been so calm and quiet these past two weeks. I hoped you really were better, that the doctors had helped you as they said they did. Perhaps I was too optimistic. Five months in the Village wasn’t long enough.”

“It was quite long enough,” Sherlock says, fighting to keep his voice steady. “You can call it what it is, we’re not at your club. It wasn’t a village, it was an institution. You committed your brother for 20 bloody weeks.”

“After he disappeared for eight weeks,” Mycroft says. “Along with £50,000, much of it mine. I assume most of it went for cocaine, it certainly wasn’t accommodations, given the state of the place I found you in. Funny how one never thinks of Paris as having slums, even after reading Orwell. But now I know, don’t I? I have a _very clear picture_ of just how bad Paris can get.”

“It didn’t all go for cocaine,” Sherlock says. “Some of it was whores.”

Mycroft jaw works. His right hand clenches. Then he recovers. “That does explain the venereal diseases,” he says. “Gonorrhea, chlamydia, and syphilis. Really, rather impressive. But do you know what really impressed me, Sherlock? Your cocaine-induced psychosis. Sitting in a hospital room at Pitié-Salpêtrière, hearing you rave about oysters taking over the world, and wondering if this was it, if you had finally succeeded in damaging yourself beyond all repair. For a good 12 hours I feared it was so. Yes, that is an impression which stayed with me.”

“Hence the loony bin in Wales.”

“A rehabilitation facility at Portmeirion. Not exactly Bedlam.”

“No, more like Disneyland with hypodermics. Not to mention the fucking mind games. If that is what the British Secret Service considers a top-notch facility, I shudder to think what you people do with the spooks you don’t like.”

“The doctors there are very good,” Mycroft says. “Perhaps you simply need another course of treatment. In time, I’m sure you’d come to appreciate their efforts.” He smiles like the two of them are sharing a brotherly joke. But the assessing look is in his eyes again, more intent now. 

Sherlock’s entrails turn to ice. He smiles back so Mycroft won’t see his lips tremble. “I’m quite sane,” he says. “And sober. As I said, one course of treatment was enough.”

“I’m not so sure,” Mycroft says, “after this little outburst.”

“It’s not an outburst. It’s something I’m going to do.”

“If you’re not ready to go back to the lab yet, we can discuss it,” Mycroft says, suddenly reasonable. A classic tactic of his, switching gears to keep you off-balance. He steps behind the desk. He waves Sherlock into the guest chair like the most avuncular of bosses. “Sit.”

Sherlock stubbornly stands in the doorway, crossing his arms over his chest. Mycroft shrugs and settles himself in Siger’s lovely old tufted leather chair. (His father Thomas’s before him, and _his_ father’s before that, though the upholstery was changed sometime in the ‘50s.) 

“I worried that this week might be too soon,” Mycroft says. “But I thought it would be better if you had something to occupy your mind. Your return can be put off another fortnight. Several fortnights, if necessary. It is my department, after all.”

“Which is why I’m not going back. I don’t want to work for you.”

“That’s hurtful,” Mycroft says. If you didn’t know him better, you might think he was actually hurt. Perhaps he would be, if he had blood running in his veins instead of liquid nitrogen. (As far as hyperbole goes, not precisely accurate. Liquid nitrogen is not the coldest substance on Earth. That would be liquid helium, which comes to within 700 billionths of a degree Kelvin of absolute zero under the proper laboratory conditions. But it’s also less chemically stable than nitrogen. If you can attribute one quality to Mycroft, stability is it. Enough to crush you.)

“I’m not going back,” Sherlock repeats. _You can’t make me,_ he’d like to add but doesn’t. Mycroft is already doing his best to infantilize him. No point aiding and abetting the process.

“If you need more time to recover, I’m open to that,” Mycroft says, still reasonable. “If you really don’t want to go back to the lab—we can discuss it in a few weeks when you’ve settled in. Very likely you’ll feel differently about turning down a job that most people in your field would kill for. In any event, you’re not moving out. How ridiculous.”

“Ridiculous? I’m 27 years old.”

“With a history of drug abuse and emotional instability. London is not a nice place for one of your temperament. Nor is it easy, not for those who don’t have stable employment or family money. I’m sure a cold-water fourth-floor walk-up in Brixton seems very romantic right now, but it won’t be in a month or two. Pneumonia is _not_ romantic. Given your dislike of hospitals, I’d think you’d want to avoid returning to one so soon.” 

“The flat is on Montague Street,” Sherlock says. “First floor, in a very nice renovated building just around the corner from the British Museum. It’s not large, but it’s comfortable. If I do catch pneumonia, it won’t be from my accommodations.”

Mycroft processes this new information with a blink. “How do you plan to pay for these accommodations? If you think I’m giving you any more money after your recent theft—” 

“I don’t need your money. I wouldn’t take it if I did, but I don’t.”

“If you’re planning on using the money you earned from those five months you worked at the lab, think again. What wasn’t eaten up by rehabilitation will go to pay me back for your sojourn in Paris. When that’s done, you won’t have the price of an Oyster Card.”

“You’re welcome to that. It might do you good to take public transport once in awhile. Until I can establish myself, I’ll be using family money. You’re right: It does make living alone in London a more cheerful prospect.”

“You know very well that the money left in trust for you was spent years ago—” 

“Not Father’s money,” Sherlock says. “Mother’s.”

Mycroft falls silent, staring at him. For a moment all you can hear is the tick of the carriage clock on top of the piano. Sherlock is able to enter the study then, shaking off the momentary strangeness, a feeling of invading where he does not belong. He can sit in the red leather guest chair, even lean back. Not quite as comfortable as Siger’s chair must be, but it sits well enough. No wonder Mycroft occupied it so often when they were growing up. 

“It’s surprising,” Sherlock says presently, “the money that can be made by writing mystery stories for bored housewives. A sympathetic heroine, a facile plot, a bit of sex and scenery, and you’ve got millions in the bank. More being made every day—Violet Vernet remains in print. Then there’s the residuals from the BBC series—a perennial favorite for fans who don’t mind the middling production values. I have even heard rumors that a certain Hollywood director is going to make a major motion picture sometime in the near future. You know what that will do for the sales of Mother’s back catalog. _Millions,_ Mycroft. And I have half.” 

Mycroft remains silent, his features as smooth as the face of the carriage clock. Sherlock knows there is a lot going on beneath his still surface, however. Like the carriage clock, if you could open the right door, you’d see all of those tiny wheels and gears working. Sherlock speaks before he can think about it too much, what that complex machinery might be plotting. He hasn’t let himself be daunted by his brother’s words. He won’t be intimidated by silence.

“I know this possibility never occurred to you,” he goes on. “Nothing of Mother’s could be valuable, could it? Not in your worldview. But Ford’s solicitors have been in touch. He’s not currently speaking to me, but his people have been. At length. One thing that I can say for our brother: Even when he’s not here, he makes his presence felt.” 

_“Sherrinford.”_ Mycroft enunciates every syllable. “I might have known he was behind this.”

“No. That’s not it. You don’t see, do you? You still don’t bloody see.” Sherlock is surprised by his own anger. He doesn’t crush it as he usually does. He wants to feel it, to use it as the fuel to get through this. To break free, once and for all. “I want to _go._ I’ve wanted to for years now. Ford has nothing to do with it.”

“No? When I left on my trip last summer you were perfectly fine, as you’d been fine for six years. I return five weeks later to find Mrs. Thompson distraught and you disappeared, along with a large chunk of the household funds. What do I discover, after a few discreet inquiries? Our brother has been in the country. He has been here, in the house, with you. The timing is highly suggestive. This restlessness you speak of, I saw no sign of it before Sherrinford made his appearance. Trust me, when it comes to your day-to-day emotional state, _I pay attention.”_

“So solicitous,” Sherlock whispers. “Is that why you didn’t tell me about our mother’s death? You let them bury her half a world away, and you said nothing. Not a word.”

Mycroft’s expression doesn’t change. But it takes him a moment to speak. “Sherlock—”

“Perhaps you _were_ thinking of me, in your own strange way. What about you? I looked up the date. I remember that week. You didn’t even take a day off from work. Did you go to church and light a candle? Did you send flowers to Sydney? You didn’t, did you? You did nothing.”

Mycroft looks down, tapping two fingers on the desk blotter. “She was a very foolish woman.”

_“She was our mother.”_

Mycroft’s head jerks up. “Oh, spare me the self-righteousness. You hadn’t seen her since you were ten. That was your decision, not mine. Those years you were in Los Angeles, I know Ford went to see her. He goes to Sydney every year or so. Did he invite you to go? Of course he did. But you said no. Why is that? _You didn’t want to._ So don’t play the good son now.”

“No,” Sherlock says. “I’ll leave that to you. Mycroft Holmes, the good son. So loyal. But not to his mother. When the choice had to be made, he didn’t hesitate.”

“What are you talking about?”

Sherlock reaches into his jacket pocket. He throws the book on the desk, where it lands with a gentle thump. Just a thin paperback, the kind you can buy in airports and big chain bookstores. The type of novel favored by weary travelers and bored housewives. This one is worn, cracked and yellow with age. But the title can still be read clearly. It jumped out at Sherlock all those months ago, when he was browsing in the hospital library. _The Shadow Son,_ by Violet Vernet.

“Strange choice of _nom de plume,”_ Sherlock says. “She could have just used her maiden name, instead of her grandmother’s. Perhaps she didn’t want to invite comparisons to Cousin Aldous.”

Mycroft stares at the little book like Sherlock threw a lump of C-4 on his desk.

“They encouraged reading at the Village,” Sherlock says. “Anything to take our minds off our own troubles. Nobody made the family connection, of course. Mother hid her first marriage a bit too well. It’s not even mentioned on her Wikipedia page. Interestingly, Ford is listed as her son—he has a page, too. But not a word about Siger or her younger sons. Like London never existed for her, like _we_ didn’t. But she never forgot what happened here. She wrote all about it in her first book. Violet Holmes was unfaithful to her cold and difficult husband, just like Vivien Houseman. Like Vivien, Violet was betrayed by her middle son. That sly, fat little boy, who spied on his mummy and discovered she was having an affair. And told his father everything.”

Mycroft sighs. “Don’t tell me you’ve swallowed that twaddle wholesale. It’s a novel, Sherlock.”

“Tell me it isn’t true.” Sherlock can feel it again, the rage swelling inside like bubbles in acid. “I know what a good liar you are, you’ve lied to me for years. Let’s test your powers now. Tell me that you didn’t ruin our parents’ marriage, that you didn’t deprive me of a mother when I was barely a year old. Tell me you don’t know that it’s you who’s responsible for what I’ve become, my addictions and instabilities. Tell me that’s not why you watch me so closely, that it isn’t guilt which motivates you. Make me believe it. I don’t think you can.”

Mycroft says nothing. He barely moves, just the slight twitch of one shoulder. The shadow of a shrug. It’s more or less the reaction that Sherlock was expecting. 

He rises. “Goodbye, Mycroft.”

He exits the office. He’s crossing the reception area, headed for the door. The strangest sensation in his chest, like all the bubbles of anger are bursting, making him dizzy with this unexpected feeling: Freedom. 

He’s at front door when he feels a familiar grip close on his forearm. He spins around. “Let go.”

“Not in your present state. Violet was a storyteller. You are putting your faith in a fiction.”

Sherlock twists away. “Don’t bother with facile reassurances. I told you what I want to hear. Tell me that you didn’t tell Father about Mother’s affair.”

Mycroft is silent. Sherlock can see him working things through that labyrinthine brain of his, trying to prevaricate, circumlocute, slice the truth razor-thin. But in the end he simply sighs and says, “I did. But there’s more to the story. I won’t go into specifics—”

“Secrets,” Sherlock hisses. “I’m sick of them. The walls of this house are rotten with them. That was Father’s true legacy to you. I’m sure the money was nice, but it was the intelligence that really set you up. All those dirty little files squirreled away in your boltholes around town. You know everything about everyone, but I know you, Brother. I’ve kept your secrets all these years, but no more. You will let me go. No phone calls, no surveillance, no bloody locked-door facilities in Wales. If you don’t do what I ask, I will hurt you. _I will expose you._ Understand?”

Mycroft looks almost amused. “What could you possibly know? The only way you could hurt me is to hurt yourself. I won’t allow it. Call it guilt or bloodymindedness, I won’t let it happen.” 

“I know Arabic,” Sherlock says. “It’s not so difficult once you learn how to skip all the vowels. I know the combination to your attaché case. Father’s birthday, reversed. How pitifully simple.”

Mycroft goes white. Then he goes red. “You sneaking little—”

“But that’s not the cherry on the surveillance sundae. I’ve followed you. Normally that would be much more difficult than learning Arabic, but I was only interested in certain errands of yours. I’ve noticed a pattern in your behavior—every month or two you reach a peak of tension and peevishness. Then you disappear for a night and come back calm. _Spent._ I saw the pattern early on, but I didn’t really see until I came back from LA. Then I understood. Even the Iceman has vulnerabilities—needs. Professionals are so beautifully simple, aren’t they? They do what you want them to do, and they leave when you ask. Though I must admit it still shocked me when I saw what you were up to. I couldn’t reconcile it with your Puritanical views. But upon reading _The Shadow Son,_ I realized it all makes perfect sense. After your experiences with Mother, you decided all women are whores. So shagging one every few weeks really doesn’t—”

The world explodes in pain and stars. Before Sherlock can begin to recover from the first blow, Mycroft has followed with a second—and a third. Mother of God, you wouldn’t think a pudgy man could move that fast. Sherlock wards off a chop to his throat, only to have his feet swept out from under him. He bashes his head against the hard marble tiles and cries out. But it’s cut off sharply, as his brother gets his hands around Sherlock’s throat and squeezes.

For the first few seconds, Sherlock resists out of sheer instinct. But he forces himself to think, even as the world begins to blacken in his vision. Sherlock has never believed in telepathy, but he knows the depth of his brother’s perceptions. He makes his hands fall away from Mycroft’s wrists. He blinks tears out of his eyes and stares into his brother’s. He thinks as hard as he can. 

_Do what you must. Leave me be or finish me off. One way or another, I’m leaving this house._

For ten seconds longer, the pain and pressure grow worse. In that time, he is sure he is going to die at his brother’s hands. Then, all at once, the crushing grip is gone. Through the haze that hasn’t yet cleared from his vision, Sherlock sees his brother stand, swaying a little on his feet. Mycroft wipes his brow and turns away, shoulders slumped like an old man’s. 

“Go.” 

Mycroft’s voice is hoarse, as if he were the one who has just been strangled. Before Sherlock can recover or react, his brother has fled across the reception area, back to the haven of his study. He shuts the door. Sherlock hears the bolt turn, the click of the tumblers loud in the silent house.

Sherlock struggles to his feet. He takes his coat out of the front closet and puts it on. He starts to wind his scarf around his neck, winces, and just buttons up his coat. He leaves the house, closing the door gently behind him. He descends the checkered steps one last time.

He hails a cab and gets in. “Twenty-seven Montague Street,” he rasps. He must look strange, red eyes and red marks on his throat, but the cabbie doesn’t remark. This isn’t a novel; there is no need for snappy dialogue. The Devil isn’t after him, not anymore. Why be clever about it?

He looks up at the windows of 19 Chapel Street. There is no treacherous silhouette staring down at him. If Ford makes the film, no doubt he’ll come up with something suitably cinematic for his heroine’s big exit. But this isn’t a film. There is no swelling soundtrack or eerie foreshadowing. No handsome lover waiting in Soho, or anywhere else. 

Sherlock wishes he were a storyteller. If he were, like his mother or his brother, he would do something with this moment, the first of his adult life. Make a novel or a movie of it—or at least a blog entry. If he were like his father or his other brother, he would have a plan of attack, a plot for world domination—also, some idea of where to buy milk for his Weetabix in the morning. All those fascinating people in his family tree, the scientists and artists, spooks and lunatics. He _should_ have something clever to say. But he doesn’t. 

Sherlock sighs, and puts his head against the window glass. He doesn’t look at 19 Chapel Street again, as the cab pulls away from the curb.


	12. Chapter 12

**John, 2008**

John is on his back, staring up at some dusty bits on the ceiling, when he hears the knock at the door. Given the events of the day it could be a number of people, and John doesn’t want to see any of them. But he knows who this is. They haven’t got a secret knock or anything, but the manner of knocking—two quick raps, loud and sudden as a sniper’s shots—tells him. 

“Come in,” he says.

The door opens. A tall figure pauses on the threshold. His shoulders are almost as wide as the doorway. More than a bit intimidating, rendered in silhouette like that. But then he speaks. 

“Union Jack,” he says. “How the hell are you?” 

“Fine,” John says. “Everything’s fine.”

The figure steps into the room, flicking on the overhead lights as he goes. He shuts the door and turns the deadbolt. He looms over the bed. John squints up at him. Sonny is a lot to take in, and not just because John has been lying in the dark for hours. Some of it’s height and some of it’s color, six foot three inches of ginger menace. The freckles temper things a bit, and the thousand-watt grin. Even for an American, Sonny smiles a lot. 

He’s not smiling now. “Wanna talk about it?”

“No.”

Sonny nods, pursing his lips. He sets a shampoo bottle on John’s bedside table. Of course it doesn’t contain shampoo. The American troops at Bagram Air Base pay lip service to General Order Number One—you can’t buy a beer or a shot of whiskey on site—but nobody inspects the care packages from home too carefully. Sonny gets one every week from somebody in his clan. It’s a lot of shampoo for a man with a crew cut.

“Wanna drink?” Sonny says. “My brother Joshua sent it, which means Johnny Walker Double Black. Good shit.”

“No, thank you.”

Sonny pushes the shampoo bottle to one side. He takes a CD out of his jacket pocket. He pushes open the player on John’s alarm clock and slides in the disc. Slow, twanging music comes out of the speakers. For a man born in the ‘80s, Sonny loves his ‘70s music. The twangier the better.

“Josh sent this, too. I listened to it all the time in high school. I told him I have an iPod, but he’s not exactly a techie. Anyway, this always used to cheer me up. You like Skynyrd?”

“Not particularly.” John runs hands over his face, sighing. Part of him—a rather large part—wants to tell Sonny to take his liquor and his country rock and go the fuck away. But he doesn’t. 

Sonny is silent a minute. “Wanna fuck me?”

John puts his hands down. He turns his head. 

“God, yes.”

Sonny grins. “That’s about what I figured.”

John gets up. By the time his feet have hit the floor Sonny is naked, seventy-five inches of finely muscled flesh on display. John blinks at the sight, though it’s one he’s seen a hundred times. 

His reaction isn’t unusual: Sonny draws stares even fully clothed. The first time he came into the hospital, one of the nurses walked straight into a closed door over him. The first medic to look at Sonny was less impressed, declaring the pink lesion on his penis to be syphilitic in origin. Sonny went redder than his hair and started to leave, but the PA had other ideas. Sonny soon apprised him of the real dimensions of the situation: _You’re the one with the clipboard. I’m the one with the SIG semi-automatic on my hip. You’re gonna tell me where I can and can’t go? Fuck you._

That’s when John intervened. Normally he let the Yanks sort themselves out, but it was a slow night. He took a look at the organ under dispute and smirked. _Spider bite,_ he said. _I’ve had them myself. Put an ice pack on it, you’ll be fine._

 _Nice to know there’s somebody in this place who’s not a fucking moron,_ Sonny said, and exited after giving the medic one last glare. John thought it was the end of things, but Sonny had other ideas. It took John a couple of weeks to figure out there was something else behind the grins and offers of shooting lessons. Sonny shoving his tongue down John’s throat after one spirited target practice finally clued him in. 

John gets lube and a condom from the bedside table drawer. He’s quite sure that neither he nor Sonny has syphilis, but no point taking chances. Bagram is rotten with ill-considered sex, more fallout from General Order Number One: The PX sells condoms, but it’s difficult to justify the purchase, extramarital sex being as illegal as whiskey or beer. Sometimes you see torn-open boxes on the shelves where people shoplifted what they need, but not everyone bothers. There were 63 pregnancies last year among female service members—63 _reported._ John knows the number is higher, he’s helped out a few women, mostly pale-faced Americans desperate to save their careers. It’s enough to put you off heterosexual intercourse altogether, even if you have ready access to the stock of contraceptives in the pharmacy, as John does. 

“Earth to John? I’m getting joint cramps, man.”

John looks over his shoulder to the bed, where Sonny has positioned himself on his hands and knees. Yes, non-procreative sex is much easier for the present, especially when you have such an obliging and flexible partner. 

He strips quickly, putting the many rules of General Order Number One out of his mind. He’s about to flaunt #5d in the most egregious manner, but there’s no sense in dwelling on it. There are a lot of things here it’s best not to think about. Not broken boxes of condoms or desperate women, not good whiskey in old shampoo bottles, not boys lying in a ditch with open fractures, you blinking the sweat out of your eyes as you bend over them, then looking up at the sound of battle cries and seeing turbaned men running towards you, your death in their faces. Not your hand on the butt of your gun, the one the rules say you’re not supposed to have—

“Seriously, Jacky boy, am I inconveniencing you or something?”

“Sorry,” John says. “It’s been a bad day.”

“So I hear. Come here.” He sits back on his heels and beckons to John. Sonny looks damn good in desert fatigues, but he’s a wonder of nature naked. Such a strange sight on John’s thin blue sheets, posing on the rickety bed. Like seeing a lion in your neat little bedsit, something that just shouldn’t be. But John is so glad his sexy beast has deigned to visit. He’s not sure he could have got through the night without his company.

Sonny is tall enough that John barely has to bend down to kiss him. Sonny approaches this with the same good-natured ferocity that he does everything else. Snogging him is like being mauled by a friendly lion must be: breathless and overheated, involving shocking amounts of teeth. John will emerge from it as he always does—masticated and hard as a rock.

Sonny’s eyes flick down and up, taking in John’s erection and his own bite marks. “Better,” he says, palming John’s face in one big paw. “Now that I have your attention, _do me_ already.”

John raises an eyebrow. “Is that an order, Corporal?”

“Different army, Captain,” Sonny says, grinning. “Y’all lost that war, remember?” His hand slides down, gripping John’s cock and starting to stroke. John bites his lip—it wouldn’t do to show weakness in front of the insolent colonial, not at present. Coming his brains out wouldn’t set the right tone at all.

John pushes Sonny back on the bed, out of stroking distance. “Turn over.” He’s using his captain voice, and it seems to work. Sonny obeys, giving John a chance to admire his superbly muscled back and shoulders, as well as an ass that would send Michelangelo’s David running for the gym. Making the view even more interesting are the tattoos—one on each bicep, as well as one across the top of his back. It’s the most interesting of all, a parachute with wings on either side that curl out like an archangel’s. But there’s nothing seraphic about what’s superimposed on top of those, a grinning skull with a red beret, and below it an inscription in Latin that John has heard before. _Si vis pacem, para bellum: If you wish for peace, prepare for war._ How fucking patriotic.

John has considered pointing out that it was a favorite saying of the Nazis as well, but so far he has kept his peace, and will do so again tonight. Picking a fight is rarely a good idea, especially when you have an erection. But he can’t help reaching out and touching it. 

_“Memento mori,”_ he whispers.

“Huh?” 

“The skull on your back, that’s what it is. A reminder of death.”

“Hmm. I just thought it was cool. Mama hates it, and it itched like a son-of-a-bitch for three weeks. Guess the death thing works. We _are_ out here in the desert getting shot at.”

“I know,” John says, his voice a little too loud. Or maybe it just echoes that way in his head. 

“Shut up and fuck me,” Sonny says. He’s only a corporal, but John obeys. 

He slips on the condom and flips open the lube bottle. The fine muscles along Sonny’s spine quiver in anticipation. He looks like he should be a brutal top—and Sonny is willing enough to take that role when John asks—but he’s happier like this. He doesn’t seem worried about his masculinity being impugned by taking it up the ass, but then Sonny has man points to spare. 

John slides a lube-slicked hand down the small of Sonny’s back, momentarily fascinated by downy red hairs there, the way they glisten in the light. Everything about Sonny is beautiful, John has yet to find a part of him that’s not. _Even his asshole is beautiful,_ John thinks, as he slides two fingers inside of Sonny, making the slick muscles inside slicker, more ready. 

“John—shit—” Sonny gasps, as John slides in three fingers, then four.

“Shh,” John says. “That’s an order.” He twists his fingers once, twice, and Sonny shudders. John slowly pulls them out. At the release of pressure, Sonny gives a needy little groaning sigh that makes John’s whole body tighten. Enough foreplay—John needs to be inside of him. He suddenly needs it so fucking badly that he’s almost angry, his breath speeding up, the taste of metal in his mouth, vision going fuzzy and clear at the same time, focused on one needful thing.

John pushes inside of Sonny slowly, trying to be careful even as the whole world is fading to a single sensation, the red pulsing need in the center of his cock. He slides in slowly, and it’s so good he could cry, plunging into the silky yielding heat inside of Sonny. He’s almost all the way inside but he still isn’t touching him enough, John slides his hand around and feels Sonny’s stiff, beautiful cock. He strokes it hard as he fucks Sonny harder.

“Oh, yeah—” Sonny breathes. “Please—Jesus Christ—”

_“Jesus, help me. It hurts—please—” The man speaking is not the one John is worried about, even though his femur is sticking through fatigues dyed red with blood. The boy next to him—and he is a boy, he can’t be more than 20—is the more desperate case. His belly is a single open wound, intestines bared and baking in the sun, bits of sand stuck to the exposed gut glistening, glistening. Don’t think about his real chance of survival. Fucking focus, blink the sweat out of your eyes and do your motherfucking job—_

John fucks Sonny harder, trying to fuck away the memories of this morning. To see the lovely, whole body in front of him instead of the broken ones in the ditch. Just see _him_ —Sonny is such a sight to see—moving smoothly with every thrust, taking it up the ass but taking it like a man, the powerful muscles in his shoulders working, his head bent. Feel how fucking good he feels, how far inside he’s let you go, not bitching however hard you fuck him, probably too hard but Sonny is so good, he’d let you hammer him forever if that’s what you need but you don’t, you just need a minute more, thirty seconds, ten, one last thrust and—

The orgasm is fast but devastating, like a single kill shot to the head. John collapses forward on Sonny as he climaxes, letting the smooth damp flesh of Sonny’s back muffle his cry. Things go a bit dim after that, the real world coming in strobe flashes as he pulls out and disposes of the condom, then finishes bringing off Sonny with his hand. 

He doesn’t really come back to himself until some time later, when they are spooned together on John’s narrow bed. Maybe it’s the orgasm or the drink from the shampoo bottle afterwards, but it’s as if the bell jar suffocating John’s brain has lifted a bit. He takes a long, shuddery breath. Sonny’s arms tighten around him.

“Wanna talk about it now?” he asks.

“I shot three men today,” John says.

“Beginner’s luck. But I’m glad to see you were paying attention to my lessons.”

“Two are dead,” John goes on, like Sonny hasn’t spoken. “The other is in custody at BCP.”

“Fifty-fifty chance he makes it out of there. Those boys don’t fuck around.”

John sits up. “How the hell can you be so flip about this?”

Sonny puts his arms behind his head. “What’s the matter, Jacky boy? You wanna cry about it?” His words are sarcastic, but his expression isn’t. There’s compassion there, but also something better: understanding. Of course Sonny understands.

“Go on, then,” he says. “Bawl your guts out if you think it’ll help. My experience is it doesn’t.”

John ponders a minute. “How many men have you killed?”

“Confirmed kills? 27. It’s more than that, though. I’ve been in some fire fights, and you don’t know what the fuck you’ve hit once the dust starts flying. Let’s say 30, to be on the safe side. That’s a nice round number, huh?”

“Bloody hell.” John has always known Sonny is a sniper, and a damn good one. Sonny is the one who taught him how to shoot. But he’s never considered it before, the skill it takes to excel at Sonny’s job. The patience he must have, the coldness that’s required to be what he is. Maybe you have to be born that way, or at least trained up to it. Sonny’s told him other stories, hunting in the Ocala National Forest with his father and brothers when he was barely big enough to carry a .22 rifle. The time he was 16 and dove into the murky depths of a flooded sinkhole to go after a 12-foot alligator he’d shot and wounded. Sonny, with his easy smile and willing flesh, is a first-rate assassin. He can talk about confirmed kills like he’s tallying up _Call of Duty_ scores. 

“Was it always so easy for you?” John asks.

“Fuck no! It’s not like killing a buck or a gator, this is people we’re talking about, even if they are terrorists. I cried and puked and had nightmares after the first one, all the usual stuff. Finally I called up my daddy, he did what I do in ‘Nam, you know. He gave me the best damn advice I ever heard: _Get the fuck over it._ If you hadn’t shot those insurgent pieces of shit you’d be dead now, and so would the wounded soldiers you were trying to protect. Some nice mama sitting at home in Texas or California is gonna get to see her baby in a few months, all because of you. Good fucking deal.”

John gets up. He walks to the window and looks out over the arid landscape. He looks beyond the desert to the mountains in the distance. Sharp and frosty, they seem above all of this messy human conflict. Cold and eternal, nothing touches them. They don’t feel anything. 

Big warm hands are on his shoulders. “You did what you had to do,” Sonny says. “When the time came you stepped up, and I’m so fucking proud of you. Go ahead and cry if you want. I’m serious: I won’t think less of you.”

“I don’t want to cry,” John says. “I don’t think it’s shock, either. I won’t lose my mind in the mess hall tomorrow, or a month from now. I shot three men today, and I don’t feel anything about it. Even you reacted after your first kill, you said so yourself. What’s wrong with me?”

“That’s why you were laying here in the dark. You think there’s something wrong with you?”

“Do you know what they call people who kill without remorse? Sociopaths. I’ve always had good nerves, but what if it’s more than that? What if deep down I just don’t give a damn?”

“You do,” Sonny says. “Hell, you probably care too damn much. Why would you be out here in this godawful place if you didn’t?”

“Running away,” John says. “Somebody wanted to marry me. Afghanistan seemed like a better prospect than staying in London and settling down.”

“I don’t blame you. Women are fucking scary.”

 _Not a woman,_ John thinks. But he isn’t going to talk about it right now. Mark Morstan is long ago and far away. All he says is, “That’s no way for a married man to talk. You love your wife.”

“Yep. Which is why I can tell you that she’s a scary bitch sometimes. Threatened to cut my balls off if I slept with another woman while I was away. Guess you could say I’ve kept my promise.” Sonny chuckles at that and kisses the top of John’s head. Then his hands slide down over John’s arms. Something so affectionate in the movement. Almost possessive.

“Amber’s okay,” Sonny says. “She has the kids to keep her company. My mama and sisters go up to Ft. Bragg to see her all the time. She has more company than she wants, probably. You’re the one I worry about, Union Jack. You never get packages from home, do you? Not one. No letters or e-mails, either. I know you don’t like to talk about yourself, and I haven’t pushed it. But now I guess I have to ask: Are your mama and daddy mad at you?”

“They’re dead,” John says. “I have a sister, but we don’t get along. I don’t think about England most of the time. It’s fine.”

“Still,” Sonny says. “I like the thought of leaving you here by yourself about as much as I like my real first name. We all know how I feel about _that.”_

“It’s a cracking name,” John says. “It’s very English.”

“I ain’t no Englishman,” Sonny says. “Guess it could be worse, I could be named after Daddy, like my oldest brother. Augustus is the only name that’s fucking lamer than mine.”

“I’ll be fine,” John says. “You shouldn’t worry about me. It’s good that you’re thinking about your family. Three more weeks and you’ll be back in America.”

Sonny doesn’t answer right away, one hand tracing over John’s hip. “About that . . . ” he stops.

John suddenly spins around, shaking off Sonny in the process. “No. Don’t even think about it.”

“Just a nine-month extension, Major Parks would do the dance of joy if he heard I wanna stay—”

“Are you bloody listening? _No.”_

“This ain’t just about you,” Sonny says, crossing his arms over his chest. “They need me here.”

“Bullshit,” John says. “The United States Army has plenty of killers. They can do without you.”

“That is a helluva thing to say to me. Especially after today. If I hadn’t put that fucking SIG in your hand, if I hadn’t _made_ you take it, you’d be on a slab in the morgue right now.”

“Instead I’m facing disciplinary charges, probably. RAMC personnel are not supposed to go about armed.”

“I’m sure knowing you’d followed orders would have been real comforting when you were strumming that harp up in Heaven. What the hell kind of rule is that, anyway? _No doctors with guns._ It’s that kind of thinking that made you people lose the Revolutionary War.”

“Oh, yes, of course. It was our enlightened attitude towards gun control that cost us the colonies. Spoken like a true Floridian. That’s 48th out of 50 states in education, isn’t it?”

“We saved your asses during WWII! Y’all would be speaking German if it weren’t for us.”

“Here’s some German for you: _Fich dich ins knie._ And because I know Americans can’t speak any foreign languages, I will translate: _Go fuck yourself._ Go back to North Carolina and take your sodding Lynyrd Skynyrd with you. And by the way, your brother’s whiskey tastes like soap. I realize the Florida public school system has let your family down in a number of ways, but it seems impossible to me that he never learned to _wash a fucking bottle.”_

John stops, chest heaving. Sonny stares at him. It strikes John then, how young he is. Gator killer, deadly sniper, father of two, and one of the sharpest poker players John has ever seen. But he’s still just a kid. Sonny will be 25 on his next birthday.

John puts his hands to his temples. “Christ! I’m sorry. I don’t know where all that came from.”

“I dunno, maybe you’re a little bit freaked ‘cause you killed a couple of guys today?” 

“You think that’s it?” John’s voice is hopeful.

“Um, yeah? Not everybody cries. Some buttoned-up limey bastards will fuck you in the ass kinda hard (I’m gonna have trouble sitting tomorrow, thanks very much) and then flip the fuck out when you’re just trying to help. Congratulations, John Watson: You’re not a sociopath.”

“Oh.” John leans against the window ledge and sighs. “Good.”

“Hmm,” Sonny says.

“Sorry,” John says. When Sonny just scowls: “Really, I am. I’m an ungrateful fucking bastard, I do realize that. But you should still go home.”

“What are you gonna do if I do?”

“What I did before I met you, I suppose.”

 _“Fuck,_ John,” Sonny says, shaking his head. “Don’t you want anything more than this?” He swings his arm wide, the gesture taking in the cramped room with its cheap wood paneling, the squat yellow hospital below, the desert beyond, the whole seething mess that is Afghanistan.

“I know what your plan is,” John says. “You’ve spoken of it often enough. Get in your 20 and then go home and work for your family’s construction business. Make more fat babies with your pretty blonde wife, go hunting with your brothers on weekends. Maybe take an occasional flyer with another bloke who likes a bit of cock and can keep his mouth shut. It all sounds wonderful, Sonny, _for you._ You won’t be haunted by what you’ve done here because you come from a line of warriors—your dad and uncles, your granddad at Guadalcanal and so on, probably all the way back to bloody Yorktown. I don’t come from anything but fuck-ups and drunkards. Captain John Watson of the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers: It’s all I am. I don’t want anything else. I’m not going home. Not until I’m so old and decrepit that they don’t want me anymore.” 

“You stay here, maybe you won’t grow old. Ever think of that?”

“I know it’s a possibility,” John says. “It doesn’t matter. There’s no one at home to miss me.”

“I’ll miss you,” Sonny says. “If I go, I’ll miss you every goddamn day of my life.”

“If you feel that way, then you have to leave,” John says. He turns back to the window.

“John—goddamn it, look at me! Do you know what I’m trying to say to you?” Sonny has John by the shoulders. No ‘almost’ about it now—the possession in the grip is clear.

“Sonny, I want you to listen very carefully to me.” John doesn’t try to pull away. He realizes that could set off another avalanche of dangerous admissions. He just leans close, focusing in. 

“Listen like you never listened to your teachers when you were in high school. Here’s a lesson you must remember. _This isn’t who you are._ When you’re back at Ft. Bragg, or at your parents’ home in Florida, this will seem like another life. One that belonged to someone else, a stranger. The feelings you have right now, you can’t trust them.”

“I know what I feel,” Sonny says, sticking out his chin. “I love you.”

John has to close his eyes a second. Not just to gather strength, but so he can’t see the look on the boy’s face. The naked emotion there is painful to see. _Americans:_ no self-control at all.

“You don’t love me. Even if you did, you can’t. Are you going to ask Amber for a divorce? Would you leave her, and your son and daughter? Would you look your father in the face and admit you’ve been shagging another man for months, and now you’re in love with him and you want to be with him? When would you do that, Sonny? After church or before? Maybe out in the woods when you’re hunting with your three married brothers? Don’t you understand, you stupid bloody kid, this is your whole life you’re talking about? You would lose everything.”

“I know.” Sonny’s response is more sigh than words. “I’m not stupid. But to just leave—”

“The leaving is always the hardest part,” John says. “Once you’re gone, it all becomes much easier. Six months from now you’ll see I was right. You’ll thank me—fuck that, you won’t. You won’t even think about me, and that’s as it should be.”

“Will you think about me?” Sonny’s heart is in his eyes as he says it. 

John knows that this is the critical moment. Yet another one, not 12 hours after the carnage of this morning. A moment when he has to step up, clear his vision, and take the kill shot. There is nothing else to be done. 

He steps back. He stiffens his posture. “No,” he says. “I don’t love you. I like you, the sex has been brilliant, but this isn’t love. I don’t get that way over men. It’s not me.”

Sonny is silent for a long time. His grey eyes wide, staring at John, like he expects him to take it back, to make things better. Lynyrd Skynyrd wailing in the silence: _I'm as free as a bird now/and this bird you cannot change/Lord knows, I can't change/Lord help me, I can't change . . ._

John just waits. Sonny is the trained killer, but he’s also very young. He will break first.

He steps towards John, hands clenched. For a moment John doesn’t know if Sonny is going to fuck him or punch him. In the end, he does neither. He looms over John, face flushed, eyes wet. 

“You’re a goddamn liar,” Sonny whispers. “You do love me. If you didn’t, you’d let me stay.”

John shakes his head slowly. 

“Liar,” Sonny repeats, smiling a little. A few tears snake their way down his beautiful face. “I think you’re right. Someday I will thank you for doing this. But right now I fucking hate you.”

He leans down and kisses John gently on the forehead. His lips are very warm against John’s skin. Then he turns away. Without another word, Sonny dresses quickly, picks up his shampoo bottle and his CD, and goes. John just looks after him, feeling Sonny’s good-bye kiss burning between his eyes.

John sees Sonny again in the next few weeks. It’s almost inevitable; Bagram isn’t that big. But they never have sex again. Sonny doesn’t offer, and John doesn’t ask. It’s better that way.

Six months after Sonny leaves, John gets a package out of the blue. There’s no written message, just a CD and a picture. The CD is Sonny’s Lynyrd Skynyrd disc, now a bit worse for wear after two trips overseas. Taped to the CD is a photograph. Sonny is standing under a large live oak, its lower branches dripping with Spanish moss. In one arm he’s holding a toddler, a beautiful grinning boy, large and ginger. Sonny has his other arm around a pretty blonde woman who is holding the hand of a slightly older child, a little girl with lovely long strawberry-blonde curls. There is a bulge under the woman’s sundress. She looks to be three or four months along. 

John considers the bulge for a while. Then his eyes are caught by something else. A new tattoo on Sonny’s bicep, just beneath the double A’s of the 82nd Airborne. It’s a British flag with two words under it: UNION JACK. There are no other words in the picture and nothing written on the back of it, but the message is clear: _Thank you. Still thinking of you. Every goddamn day._

John allows himself to smile at the tattoo for exactly ten seconds. Then, slowly and deliberately, he rips the picture to pieces. He gathers up the scraps and disposes of them in the waste bin, and takes the bin to the dumpster chute at the end of the hall.

He keeps the Lynyrd Skynyrd disc. He listens to it sometimes, late at night. He listens to it when he isn’t thinking of him. Sebastian “Sonny” Moran, a boy John was never in love with.

**END OF BOOK ONE**

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wanna see visual inspirations? Read various deep and meaningful insights? Check out my author notes for chapters 6-12. The notes are available at my Dreamwidth and Livejournal blogs.
> 
>  
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> [Author Notes at Dreamwidth](http://chase820.dreamwidth.org/303930.html)
> 
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> [Author Notes at Livejournal](http://chase820.livejournal.com/318382.html)
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> Links to other notes can be found at the end of chapters 5, 20, 23, 28, 29, 32, 38, 42, and 47.


	13. Chapter 13

_They fuck you up, your mum and dad._  
 _They may not mean to, but they do._  
 _They fill you with the faults they had_  
 _And add some extra, just for you._

_But they were fucked up in their turn_  
 _By fools in old-style hats and coats,_  
 _Who half the time were soppy-stern_  
 _And half at one another’s throats._

_Man hands on misery to man._  
 _It deepens like a coastal shelf._  
 _Get out as early as you can,_  
 _And don’t have any kids yourself._

_—Philip Larkin, “This Be the Verse”_

  
  
**BOOK TWO: 2010-2012**

  


* * *

**  
Sherlock, 2010  
**

“What is this place?” John says, hunger and mistrust warring on his face. The end result of the conflict is that he just looks vaguely worried. Or maybe that’s his habitual expression. Sherlock has only known John Watson for 36 hours, ample time for surface pronouncements—profession (doctor), family (few), post-traumatic stress (manageable), sexual orientation (straight). A real examination of his habits will take more time—a week, perhaps, to know what makes John tick. Assuming he lasts that long as a flatmate, which is by no means certain. Will he come to accept the skull on the mantelpiece and the eyeballs in the microwave? The oatmeal-colored jumper is not a promising sign, suggesting conventionality and a certain lack of imagination. (Though it does decide once and for all the question of sexuality—straight, dear God, so straight.) 

On the other hand, tonight John Watson shot a man and made bad jokes about it 30 minutes later. Perhaps he is more unconventional than he appears, Marks and Sparks jumper notwithstanding.

Sherlock sees John staring at him and realizes an answer is expected. “Don’t worry, you’ll love it. All the locals come here. Safe as houses.” 

John looks around the narrow alley. His eyes settle on the scarred double doors of what appears to be a desolate, rather ominous warehouse. “Second one of these I’ve visited today. Well. At least I’ve got my gun this time.”

“No more of that. I don’t want any trouble. This place makes the best chicken feet in the city.”

“There’s a recommendation you don’t hear every day. So if someone else tries to kill you, what should I do? Stand back and make bets on how it comes out?”

“You can make bets here,” Sherlock says, “if you speak Cantonese.”

“Bit rusty, I’m afraid. I can, however, tell them to fuck off in Arabic, Farsi, and German.”

“That’s not very helpful.”

“That’s why I have a gun.”

“Keep it holstered, Butch Cassidy. The only dangerous thing here is the dumplings with durian jelly. Not recommended: rather like soul-kissing a garbage skip.”

“Haven’t done that since uni.” John nods at the double doors. “Lead on.”

The Auspicious Teahouse is through the double doors and up a rickety staircase. Two more double doors—glass this time—and you are in a large, white, square room filled with round tables that are packed with people. All of them are surrounded by dishes and bamboo boxes containing every delicacy a peckish stomach could desire, from spareribs to steamed meatballs, chicken feet to, yes, the accursed durian dumplings. Sherlock can smell those from the doorway. 

The other smells are far more delicious, mostly of the fried/savory/spicy variety, along with the seductive aroma of various teas—bitter green, golden chrysanthemum, earthy oolong—and the sour tang of beers both British and Asian. The crowds of people eating piles of food are making a cacophony of conversation and clattering dishes. There is something cheerful about the sound, as there is about the whole place, a jolly, gluttonous anonymity where anyone who can eat his fill and pay the bill is welcome. Sherlock and John’s status as the only Caucasians in the room goes unremarked on. A lady pushing a loaded steamcart waves them towards an emptying table, and Sherlock rushes to claim it. He pulls John along with him, who follows unprotestingly, focused on taking in the sights, sounds, and smells of the best dim sum restaurant in London.

It’s a few minutes before they engage in further conversation, too busy waving down steamcarts and choosing selections on the dim sum tickets. Sherlock has just finished making the enviable choice of where to start first—crispy fried squid, pork liver dumplings, or chicken feet—when John finishes a potsticker, washes it down with a draught of Heineken, wipes his lips and speaks.

“I’ll move my things in tomorrow, if that’s okay.”

Sherlock, who literally has a foot in his mouth, nods. 

“Won’t be much. What I have with me in London fits comfortably into a duffel bag.”

“You haven’t seen it yet, but your room is fully furnished,” Sherlock says, after a sip of oolong tea. A new kind—not only earthy but zesty, like biting into a slightly dirty lemon. Lovely. 

“Oh. Brilliant.”

“Say that after you’ve had a look at it. Mrs. Hudson’s taste is eclectic in the same way that a schizophrenic is fanciful. You have noticed the wallpaper, haven’t you?”

“I don’t care about that. No coordinated sofa cushions or Diptyque candles, and I’m copacetic.”

“What sort of candle?”

John tears into a crispy prawn ball, looking satisfied about something. “I have some things in storage in Slough,” he says. “But I can collect those at my leisure.” Off Sherlock’s horrified look: “What? I lived there.”

“Dear God, why?” Sherlock has to pause and finish off an entire exquisite dumpling to reclaim his composure. “After your parents died, the least your aunt and uncle could do is rear you in a decent place. Not Slough.”

John finishes his prawn ball. He takes another swallow of beer and sits back, waiting. 

“Right,” Sherlock sighs. “When I borrowed your phone to call a cab to take us back to Baker Street, I scrolled through the numbers in your directory. Your sister is the only Watson in there. You don’t like her, but you have her number. You’d have your parents’ too, if they were living.”

“My mother could be remarried.”

“You’d have mentioned her by now. Probably when you were talking about your sister. Mother, sister, it’s a logical connection. ‘Mum doesn’t like Harry’s drinking either,’ something like that.”

“Okay. How do you know I lived with my aunt and uncle?”

“I was mistaken when I said you don’t have extended family. Not in London, though. _Slough:_ Of course you haven’t moved back in with them. But you have their mobile numbers. There are three people named _Canterbury_ in your phone. Unusual last name, perhaps I could give you two by coincidence but three? Your aunt, uncle, and—cousin? Unless your uncle has a brother—” 

John shakes his head. “No, that’s my cousin Tim. People say we look alike, but I’ve never seen the resemblance.”

“He lives in Slough. He stayed there. Voluntarily. If he does resemble you, it could only be physically. Not a hero, Cousin Tim.”

John has flushed a bit, though it could be the Heineken. “Is that a compliment?” 

“It’s an observation,” Sherlock says. 

“Quite a nice one,” John says. “Thank you.” He is most definitely blushing, but there’s nothing bashful in his gaze. He looks at Sherlock steadily, and Sherlock realizes that John’s eyes are not brown as he thought but a very dark blue. How did he miss that? Too much new data to take in tonight: Even his powers of observation have a saturation point. But yes—they are dark blue. Like deep ocean waters. 

Sherlock blinks and quickly waves over another steamcart. He is still ravenous—really, they don’t give you enough to eat in these tiny bamboo boxes. He takes six this time—roast pork puffs, barbecued pork buns, spicy chicken dumplings, crispy potato cakes, prawn toast with sesame seeds, and more chicken feet. There can never be enough chicken feet.

John observes all this profusion without comment, sucking pensively on a sparerib. For a few moments silence descends, as Sherlock attempts to justify his decimation of the steamcart by devouring everything in front of him. The silence is long but not uncomfortable. What was it Ford said once? That’s when you know it’s a good first date, when you don’t have to fill every fucking second with idle chit-chat. Sherlock wouldn’t know, he’s never been on a date, unless you count coke-fueled orgies. This is not a date. Sherlock Holmes does not date, and he no longer does coke or weird sex. Or, smoking.

“What about your parents?” John says. “Will they be dropping by?”

“I’m another orphan, I’m afraid.” 

“So Mycroft is your only family?”

“He’s quite enough.” Sherlock pauses. “I was joking when I told you to take his money. You should avoid him. He’s the Devil.”

“I won’t let him kidnap me again.” John considers. “Well, Anthea can kidnap me all she likes.”

“Anthea?” 

“His assistant. Dark hair, nice eyes. Lovely rack.”

“Is that what she’s calling herself this week?” Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Her real name is Julia. Do not engage. Her father is the most dangerous man in England.”

“I thought you said Mycroft was the most dangerous man in England.”

“Yes, and Julia’s father is Mycroft’s boss. Jools Siviter—he was a protégé of my father’s, then Mycroft became his protégé. Bird of a feather.”

John looks very interested. “Your father was a spook?”

“It’s not like the films. No volcano lairs or stolen Russian warheads. You want to know what it’s really like, read Le Carré. He doesn’t get the details right, but he gets the feel of it. Mostly a lot of sour-faced men scuttling around dirty little corridors making dirty little deals. Still—not a good lot to run afoul of. Do not approach Julia Siviter. You’re not her type, anyway.”

“No?” John raises his chin. “And what is her type?” 

“Sociopathic. She’s been after my brother for years. Very fortunate that Mycroft is a confirmed bachelor. The children would be terrifying.” Sherlock flags down a server and orders more tea. 

John shrugs and stops a steamcart. He chooses spring rolls of some variety, more potstickers, and—surprise!—an order of chicken feet. He looks inquiringly at Sherlock, who gives him an encouraging nod. Gingerly, John sticks one long toe in his mouth and bites down. He chews awhile. He chews and chews. 

“Well?”

“It’s—interesting,” John says, still masticating. 

“Give it a chance. You’ll get used to it.”

“If I had a quid for every time I heard that—”

“Yes?”

“I’d have a few quid. You remind me of a mate of mine from sixth form. Always pushing me to try new things.” 

“Did you enjoy them?”

“Some of them.” John smiles. He is not a handsome man—not conventionally—but he has a ridiculously charming smile. He pushes the bamboo box away. “But I’m afraid the appeal of chicken feet is lost on me.”

“Pity. I’ll have to think of something else for you to try.”

“You do that.” John is still smiling. 

They look at each other a moment. Sherlock feels the dizzying pop! of connection—he hasn’t felt it so strongly since he first met Lestrade, but that infatuation did not last long. And Lestrade never flirted—but John _isn’t_ flirting. He isn’t gay, though he did seem liberal-minded at Billy’s. Trying to be, anyway. Sherlock can see it clear as day, though it happened several hours ago, after nightfall.

_“You don’t have a girlfriend, then?”_

_“Girlfriend, no. Not really my area.”_

_“Oh—right. Do you have a boyfriend? Which is fine, by the way.”_

_“I know it’s fine.”_

_“So you’ve got a boyfriend?”_

_“No.”_

_“Right, okay. You’re unattached. Like me.”_

_No, John, not like you. Not at all like you._ Sherlock had been genuinely irritated, which is why it was rather fun turning it around on John, letting him feel like the poufter for the first time in his painfully straight existence. 

_“John, I think you should know that I consider myself married to my work, and while I’m flattered by your interest, I’m really not looking for anything.”_

Yes, very amusing, seeing how quickly John could backpedal into homosexual panic. Quite quickly, psychosomatic limp or no: 

_“No, no. I’m not asking_ —no. _I’m just saying, it’s all fine.”_

_Right. If I pushed you into the alley outside, dropped to my knees and unzipped your trousers, would that be fine? How liberal would you be while I was sucking your cock?_

Sherlock should have done it. He _should_ have, just to teach John a lesson about teasing people.

Wait. What?

Sherlock shoves an entire pork bun in his mouth, so that he cannot say anything for at least a minute, because he’s obviously experiencing some kind of temporary embolism, probably brought on by the shock of tonight’s near-death experience. He should have kept the blanket.

God, he needs a cigarette. He’d sell close relatives—both of them—for a pack of Marlboros. Pall Malls, even. But he doesn’t smoke anymore. He doesn’t do anything anymore, but work.

“Sherlock? Everything all right?”

He blinks and comes back, swallowing the pork bun. He needs to say something right now, before John looks any more worried than he already does. _Is_ that his habitual expression? Or just his habitual expression with _him?_ Sherlock needs to say something normal. A bit of casual chatter to get the conversation going again:

“How did your parents die?” 

This—this is why Sherlock doesn’t date. He’s so bad at it. (Also, without cocaine, 99% of the population is stupid and boring, so there’s that.) If this were a date—which it isn’t—he would not be getting laid at the end of the evening. Fortunate that John is straight, so his attraction to Sherlock cannot get any more non-existent. Yes, very fortunate.

John doesn’t answer right away. He asks a server for water. He squeezes the lemon slice in the glass and takes an experimental sip before speaking. “You don’t already know?” he says.

“I’m not clairvoyant, John. Just observant.” _As in, I have observed that you will never, ever want to have sex with me. And that’s fine. How did you put it? It’s_ all _fine._

“My mother died of ovarian cancer when I was eight. She was a schoolteacher: English. I suppose that’s where Harry gets her way with words. Harry’s a lawyer. If you ever want to scare the hell out of someone, my sister is very scary.”

“Noted. How did your father die?” Sherlock asks because he really does want to know, and there’s nothing to lose at this point. 

John looks down, taking another sip of water. “An accident. Single-car fatality. At least he didn’t take anyone with him. Thank God there was nobody in the back seat. He had a few too many that night.”

“And every other night, I imagine.”

John’s head jerks up. “What?”

“Scary Harry is a drinker. Alcoholism has a strong genetic component, though it seems to have skipped you.” Sherlock indicates John’s one lonely Heineken bottle and water glass. 

John says nothing, staring at Sherlock. This time the silence isn’t so comfortable. “Also, you just spent several years in a place that follows Sharia law,” Sherlock hurries on, trying to fill the void. “It’s difficult to sustain a drinking problem in Afghanistan.”

“You’d be surprised.” 

“A drinker couldn’t have made that shot.” Sherlock doesn’t have to specify which shot. _The_ shot.

“That was mostly luck.” John pauses a moment. “I also had a very good shooting instructor.” 

“Which was it, luck or instruction?” 

“Both, I suppose.”

“Why did you shoot?”

“Excuse me?”

“The cabbie didn’t have a real gun. He wasn’t an immediate threat. If you wanted to distract us, you could have shot his leg or his shoulder and had the same outcome. You took the kill shot.”

“You always take the kill shot. If you’re going to shoot at all, you shoot to kill.”

“Did you instructor teach you that?”

“Yes, among other things. We were good friends.”

“You seem to learn a lot of things from friends.”

“I’m friendly.” John drums his fingers on the water glass. “How did _your_ parents die?”

“What?”

“Isn’t this the getting-to-know-you portion of the evening?” John’s lips are stretched in a smile, which Sherlock is not sure how to interpret. It’s not friendly and it’s not mocking. Challenging, perhaps. “You know my mother was a teacher and my father was an alcoholic and that I shoot to kill. All I know is that you really like chicken feet. Turnabout’s fair play, don’t you think?”

“My father died of emphysema when I was 17,” Sherlock says. 

“Your mum?”

“I lost her early. I don’t really remember her.”

John isn’t smiling now. “I’m sorry.” Then his brow wrinkles. “Your brother said that you two fighting used to upset her.”

“That’s his idea of a joke.”

“Jesus.” 

“Mycroft.” Sherlock shrugs. “Jesus has little to do with it.”

For a moment they are both quiet again. A steamcart rolls by, laden with desserts—egg tarts, mango pudding, and sweet cream buns. Sherlock looks meaningfully at John, who shakes his head. “Put me on the cart and wheel me away. I’m done.”

Sherlock looks around and sees several groups by the glass doors, balefully eyeing their table. “We should go,” he says. “There is a rather illegal gambling hall downstairs, if you’re curious.”

“Maybe some other night.” John yawns. He squints at the checks with their stamps and scrawls. “I have no idea what this means.”

“Give them to me. My treat.”

“If you let me pay next time.”

“Right,” Sherlock says. He sweeps up the checks, suppressing his smile at the news that there will be a next time. He didn’t cock this up too badly after all. Whatever _this_ is—not a date, but pleasant all the same. He goes to the counter and pays, not minding that they were charged 20% more than the normal menu prices—Caucasian tax. He’s too sated to make a fuss. Satisfied.

There are still people out on the street, but the night seems cool and quiet after the steamy chaos of the Auspicious Teahouse. They walk towards 221-B in companionable silence. Sherlock for once lets his senses go on autopilot, not scanning faces or eavesdropping on conversations but simply letting the people go by, as if he, too, were a normal person. If this were a date, it would have been a good one. He managed not to horribly offend John. Sherlock won’t suffer the ignominy of having his flatmate move out before he has even moved in. 

Though that, practically speaking, would be fine. Sherlock doesn’t have to have a flatmate. He could afford 221-B on his own. He could buy the whole sodding house, if he so desired. He doesn’t have to have a flatmate, but he wants one. This one. 

Sherlock almost makes it. Despite the earlier slip-ups, he almost gets to the end of the evening without putting another foot in his mouth. “Goodnight,” John is saying, already looking around for an available cab. He sees one and is waving it down when Sherlock asks. To be fair, he really did think it was an innocent question. Just one thing John happened not to tell him.

“What did your father do for a living?”

John turns around. “What?”

“You never said. I’d guess doctor for obvious reasons, but it doesn’t seem quite right.”

John sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “If I tell you, I don’t want you to make too much of it. Promise you’ll just—let it go.”

“What do you—” Sherlock stops. He feels it again—that giddy popping of synapses, the sudden rush of the truth. He stares at John. “Your father wasn’t—” he looks at the car idling at the curb. “He was. Wasn’t he?”

“Yes. For 21 years.” John starts towards the curb.

“Wait. You can’t leave after that. Your father was a cabbie, John. You don’t leave after _that.”_

“Sherlock, you promised.”

“I didn’t, actually. Is that why you took the kill shot? You can tell me. I’m not going to testify. But it’s fascinating. Was he abusive? Did you hate him?” Sherlock hears the words tumbling out of him and knows that he’s saying too much, but he can’t help it. He _is_ fascinated. “John—”

John stalks towards Sherlock. For a moment, Sherlock is sure that he’s going to be attacked. He’s not scared—he has learned a thing or two about fighting since moving out of 19 Chapel Street—but this wouldn’t be a good start to his and John’s relationship. Not auspicious at all.

But John stops a short distance away. He stands there a moment. The light from the street lamp throws shadows on his face, makes his blue eyes seem infinitely deep. Deceptively calm waters, with untold fathoms under the surface.

“You are amazing,” John says quietly. “Really, you are. But you’re not always right. My father never abused me or my sister. We didn’t hate him. You couldn’t hate him—there wasn’t enough left of him to hate. I didn’t shoot the cabbie because he reminded me of Dad. I shot him because he was trying to kill you. He shouldn’t have been able to do it—he _didn’t_ have a gun. But he nearly got you. He had you a second away from poisoning yourself. 

“I suppose I wasn’t honest earlier. I did already know something about you, besides the fact that you’re amazing and you like chicken feet. Sherlock, you are self-destructive. Reckless as hell. No wonder Mycroft worries about you, even if he is your archenemy. _I_ worry about you, and I just met you. But now I’m going to bed, because I’m exhausted and I can’t worry about you any more tonight. I’ll be back in the morning. Try not to make another enemy before then.” 

John walks to the curb and opens the door of the cab. Sherlock’s heart sinks as he climbs in, but it’s just a cab. Rationally, Sherlock knows that. John closes the door. The cab pulls away and soon rounds the corner. Sherlock has to quell the strongest impulse to run after it.

 _Stop it,_ he thinks. _He’s straight. Very straight. Note the jumper. Even if he wasn’t, you’ve put all that behind you. It’s why you left Montague Street: No more temptations. If you can’t be strong, you can tell John that the flatshare is off. Beg Mycroft for your old room back._

Sherlock gives a shudder and opens the door of 221-B. Like Queen Vicky, he will be good. No coke or other controlled substances, no attempts to seduce his fascinating, heterosexual flatmate. 

But goddamn it, he is having a cigarette.


	14. Chapter 14

** John, 2010 **

Mycroft answers on the first ring. “I haven’t seen Sherlock. How long has he been missing?” 

John sighs. Sometimes, talking to the Holmes brothers is like seeing the same magic show over and over again. But somehow, you still can’t figure out the tricks behind it. “How did you—”

“John. You’re not going to call and ask me out for coffee. At least, I hope not. I’d be flattered, but you’re really not my type.” How can anyone sound so polite and so fucking rude at the same time? That’s a trick not even Sherlock has mastered. “Now, when did you last see my brother?”

“Three days ago,” John says, stepping down on his irritation. “Ordinarily I’d think it was a case, but we don’t have anything on. If it was one of his sudden excursions, he usually drags me along. And the way he was acting before he left—”

“Did the two of you have a fight?”

“We had words that morning over the testes in the veggie crisper. Nothing out of the ordinary.”

“Ah, domestic bliss. I envy you.” When John doesn’t dignify this: “You said he was behaving oddly when he left. What happened in the hours leading up to that?”

“Nothing. We were both home. We watched a movie, or most of it. He left towards the end. He said he was bored but didn’t look it. I’d never seen him look like that before.”

“How so? Angry?”

“He gets angry all the time watching telly. Yells at the chat shows and news reports. Has a fine time. He looked—” John stops. “Blank. But not his I’m-crawling-into-my-mental-treehouse-for-a-bit-and-pulling-up-the-rope-ladder-behind-me sort of blank. A _sick_ blank. Don’t know if that makes sense.” 

“It does,” Mycroft says, after a pause. “Well put. You have the writer’s eye for description.” He pauses again. “You’re certain you didn’t fight? A real fight—not a squabble. Be honest.”

 _“No._ Why do you think this is my fault?”

“Not yours, exactly. However, Sherlock has been quite stable since you two set up housekeeping nine months ago. It stands to reason that his current lack of stability might be linked to some sort of domestic discord.” 

John pinches the bridge of his nose. “We’re not a couple,” he says. “Why does everyone assume—”

“I assume nothing. But it’s interesting that you took _that_ from what I said. To get back to the subject at hand, I don’t know where my brother is, but I can guess what he’s doing. I could be more confident in my conclusions, however, if I knew what set him—” Mycroft stops. “What film were you watching? Was it _Brave New World?”_

“No,” John says. “But oddly enough, it was the same director. Ford Huxley—I usually like his stuff. Sherlock too. He’s not much of a film buff, but I think he has every movie this bloke ever made. _The Secret History_ is bloody amazing. Not surprised Huxley won the Oscar for it. Have you seen it?”

“I’m familiar with Huxley’s work. _The Secret History,_ is that what you were watching?”

“No, this is a new one. I wasn’t that keen at first on seeing another serial killer flick—it’s all downhill after _Silence of the Lambs,_ isn’t it? But this one turned out to be interesting. Twisty. And the bit with the heroine’s kid—what a slimy little toad—”

 _“The Shadow Son.”_ Mycroft’s voice is weirdly flat. “But that hasn’t been released yet, not even in the States. Christmas, I believe.”

“This was a screener. High definition, nice artwork. Not the sort of thing you buy in Chinatown. He said someone sent it to him. You know he has all those strange contacts.”

“Yes. Very strange.” He’s silent for so long that John is about to say something, but Mycroft suddenly rouses himself. “My brother is on a cocaine binge.” 

_“What?”_

“I know he hasn’t indulged while he’s been at Baker Street. I’d hoped—well. Never mind. He should be back in a few days. You’re a doctor, I’m sure you’ll know how to care for him. But I wouldn’t go too easy on him. He should be reminded that this isn’t acceptable behavior. Oh, and you might want to search the flat. Dispose of anything noxious you find there. Usually he’s quiet and sated after one of these outbursts, but you never know.” 

John sits down on the easy chair. He looks at the other chair, Sherlock’s chair, with its scuffed leather and tarnished metal frame. He’s seen Sherlock sitting there so many times that he can see him now, as if he were home—he _should_ be, not in the streets pumping nasty chemicals into his system. John can’t quite bring himself to believe that Sherlock is actually doing it. He learned about the drugs the day after he met him, but they never seemed real. Something Sherlock used to do, perhaps, when he was younger and even more arrogant, but not a present danger. Perhaps this is all some horrid joke—Mycroft does have an odd sense of humor. He can’t be serious.

“I’m quite serious,” Mycroft says. John wasn’t speaking aloud—Mycroft is just scary.

“You don’t sound it.”

“My brother is an addict. He has been for 12 years. What good would hysterics do?”

“We need to find him. If you check the CCTV footage—”

“By the time I sorted through everything, he’d be on his way home. He’s usually not gone for more than a week. That’s been his pattern for some years, anyway.”

“Christ,” John stands up, scrubbing hands through his hair. “Don’t you give a damn? I can’t believe you’re this cold, Mycroft. Not even you. That you wouldn’t want to help your brother—”

“He has had the best doctors money and influence could buy, on two separate continents. Their efforts have resulted in this: periods of relative calm interspersed by short, ferocious rampages. The only alternative would be locking him away long-term. I know of one facility in the country that could hold him, but I’m not sending him there again. I’m not wasting its resources helping someone who doesn’t wish to be helped. I’m leaving Sherlock be. It’s what he asked years ago.”

“If Sherlock has been an addict for that long, he can’t help himself. He was what, 18 when he started using? Why wasn’t anyone looking out for him? I know both your parents were dead, but where were you, Mycroft?”

“I was in London,” Mycroft says, every syllable dripping with ice. “Sherlock was in California. The separation was not my idea. If you’re looking for someone to blame, you should blame my brother. This binge is his doing, and the one before that, all the way back to the beginning. He is the villain of the piece, though he would never admit it. Not in a thousand years.”

“I can’t believe you’re blaming Sherlock.”

“I wasn’t talking about Sherlock. You ignorant bloody fool.” The line goes dead.

“Right,” John says softly, staring at his mobile. “Thanks.” He puts the phone in his pocket.

He stands there a moment, blinking around the lounge, thinking. He’s peeved but not really surprised. Dealing with a Holmes brother is like dealing with a cat; he does as he pleases and fuck you very much if you don’t like it. John only half-expected Mycroft to help. 

Well. Just because Mycroft is a heartless bastard is no reason not to take his suggestion. John searches the flat. There is nothing odd in the kitchen but the testes still in the crisper (lying git—he _promised_ ). Nothing in the bath but some damp towels John needs to throw in the wash but probably won’t until they get really grotty. Nothing in the lounge but the usual effluvia: The one new item is a femur bone (when did that get there?) on the right-hand bookshelf, obscuring the faded spines of a three-volume edition of _Mansfield Park,_ probably a first edition, knowing Sherlock. Everything else seems to be undisturbed, but John goes through all the books on the shelves, finding nothing but a dead spider and a sticky note with complex chemical notations scrawled in grease pencil. He starts down the hall to Sherlock’s bedroom with a lighter heart.

A vial of white powder is folded in a pair of socks at the back of the top dresser drawer. 

Another vial is taped behind Sherlock’s framed periodic table of elements. A third is tucked inside the hem of the left curtain panel. John knows what the vials must be, but he opens one and tastes it anyway. He grimaces and wipes his tongue on his shirt. His experience with coke is limited to one ill-considered weekend in medical school—a crashing hangover and a raging sinus infection cured him of the urge ever-after—but he has never forgotten the bitter taste. 

“God _damn_ it, Sherlock,” he whispers. For a moment he just sits on the end of the bed with the vials in his lap, literally too depressed to move. Finally, he gets up and goes into the bath. With a satisfaction more bitter than the coke, he watches several hundred pounds worth of drugs swirl down the loo. Then he keeps searching.

He finds two more vials, one in the stairway, making a bubble in the grasscloth, and one in the antechamber, taped to the bottom of the black glass-doored cabinet. Those join the first three. Either Sherlock’s been building his stash, or Lestrade’s people are a bloody disgrace. John’s no prodigy, and in a couple of hours he found enough blow to keep an army of City traders buzzing. 

After a moment’s grim consideration, he goes upstairs and searches his own room and bath. He finds nothing, the one small saving grace. He can’t articulate what his reaction would have been to learning his boundaries had been violated to that extent—John’s head is too done in—but it wouldn’t have been good. Borrowed laptops are one thing; 8-balls are quite something else. 

It’s 11 PM by the time he finishes looking through everything. He should sleep—he hasn’t much in the last few days—but he’s too wired, like he got some of the coke through osmosis. With no particular destination in mind, he dons his coat and heads downstairs, into the street.

He stands at the top of the steps and looks around. The street is usually a bit quieter on Sunday evening, but there seems to be a lot of people about, many of them oddly dressed. John squints at them, not really taking it all in. He’s wired but weirdly fuzzy, like he can see everything and process none of it. It’s not until he sees a dinosaur and a devil walking by arm-in-arm that John remembers: It’s Halloween. Mischief and mayhem going on all over town, a time when all the normal codes of behavior are forgotten in a hail of glitter and liquor and chocolate coffins. The timing of his best friend’s disappearance is both appropriate and ominous. 

_I should look for him,_ John thinks. But as he looks beyond the costumed crowds to the cars speeding by, the dazzling rush of nighttime London, he feels his energies fade. Where could he even begin to look? Tracking down a regular person would be difficult, but finding Sherlock—especially tonight—is a task not even Mycroft wanted to take on. His friend could be anywhere doing anything, and John couldn’t reach him. Sherlock could be seizing in a gutter somewhere, jaw clenched, heart spasmed, staring into nothing with pupils like black holes, and John couldn’t help him. The picture is so clear in John’s head that for a moment it’s like he can feel the seizure as his own, chemical death coursing through his veins. The night seems to close around him, its unhallowed darkness filling him up until he can’t breathe, can’t think. 

He has to sit down on the step and compose himself. He hasn’t felt this way since January. All these months with Sherlock, all the work and distraction, deadly danger and greasy take-away, classified cases and crap telly: He’s better than he was before he moved here. No more night terrors, no panic attacks. He isn’t going to have one now. John puts his fingers to his temples and tries to center himself. It would be easier if somebody in the street didn’t have a radio blasting a grinding dubstep remake of a song he remembers from middle school. 

_I’ve had the time of my life  
And I never felt this way before  
And I swear this is true  
And I owe it all to you_

The song stutters and skips, repeating the last word over and over until you could go mad from it. 

_You you you you you  
You you you you you  
You you you you you  
You you you you you_

The music screeches and changes gears again, becomes unrecognizable as the synthesizers punch into John’s skull like pneumatic drills. He’s about to flee back inside when he hears a soft voice cutting through the relentless techno:

“Spare a bit of change, sir?”

John shakes his head to clear it, looking up. The girl standing in front of him is not in costume—or if she is, it’s the everyday disguise of the homeless. No glittery lipstick or exposed cleavage here, just old drab clothing, layers and layers of it, as if she’s trying to compensate for her lack of shelter by hiding her body in as much camouflage as she can muster. She looks a little stoned—sweaty-pale with small pupils—but her gaze is steady enough. The hand holding the begging cup doesn’t waver much. She is 20 at the very most, and John’s normal reaction to her would be pity and a slightly sour relief— _there but for the Canterburys went I_ —but all he feels now is hope. Because she doesn’t just look pitiful. She looks familiar.

“You’re one of Sherlock’s, aren’t you?” he says.

The girl blinks at him. “Sorry?”

“One of his network. You look around for him. You could look for him. You and your mates.”

The girl starts to retreat, shaking her head, but John grabs her sleeve. “Wait. Please, just wait.” Panicked, the girl is pulling away, but John quickly digs in his pocket. The minute she sees the wallet in his hand, she stills. John takes out the emergency fifty he keeps behind his old army ID. He puts it into the girl’s damp palm and folds her fingers around it, squeezing. 

“Please,” he whispers. “I just want to know he’s alive.”

Slowly, the girl nods. She takes her hand from John’s and secrets the money in her many layers. She starts to turn away, then stops. “Is there any message for him?” she asks. 

John hears it then, the cut-glass clarity of those syllables. Money and education in her voice—she sounds like his ex-girlfriend, Lucy. She sounds like Sherlock. _How did you get here, love?_ he wants to ask, but doesn’t. It’s not his business. But he wonders how many track marks are under her layers. How many other scars, on the skin and underneath it. No need to ask, really, how she got here. The way they all do: Nobody was looking out for her. She just slipped away.

 _Tell him I’m terrified,_ John thinks. _Tell him I haven’t slept for two nights, because when I close my eyes all I see is his face, white and dead. Tell him if that happens I don’t know what I’ll do._

“Tell him to come home,” John says. “Just—come home. That’s it.”

The girl gives John a shy smile. She offers it like a gift, one she’s not certain will be accepted. She was pretty once—might be still, if her circumstances were kinder. John smiles back, but she’s already leaving him. She walks up Baker Street, a small figure in too many garments but graceful, all the same. A knot of revelers swirls around her, seven or eight of them dressed as happy skeletons, waving glowsticks in time to the blaring song. When the dancing, deathly throng passes, she’s gone.

John goes back into the house. The stairs to the flat seem mountainous, all his nervous energy faded. He feels grimy and dull and about a hundred years old. He should bathe and go to bed, but he’s too exhausted to do either. And if he does go upstairs, he’ll miss Sherlock if he comes home. _When_ he comes home—he will return. His brother says he always does, and for once John is taking Mycroft at his word. What other choice does he have?

He sits back in the overstuffed chair. He doesn’t think he’ll sleep, but one moment he’s staring at Sherlock’s empty chair and the next he’s lost in murky, jumbled dreams. In every one he is frustrated. Dialing a phone number dozens of times and always getting it wrong. Looking for an address that keeps changing. Searching for someone who is always just out of reach. Catching the edge of a long dark coat only to have it slip from your fingers, his tall, elegant figure forever retreating, untouchable.

John opens gritty eyes into grey morning light. He yawns, stretching to get the knots out. He rubs his eyes, and when his vision clears he sees Sherlock’s chair again. 

Sherlock is sitting in it. 

He’s so pale and motionless that for a moment John thinks it must be another dream. But he himself is too sore and grubby, and the flat is too much its dusty self. His friend is solid, if white as a wraith. No ghosts today: Halloween is over. It’s All Saints’ Day, and Sherlock is home. 

“I heard you were looking for me,” he says. His voice is raspy, like he hasn’t used it in awhile.

John nods. He can’t speak yet. His throat is dry, but that’s not the real problem. He’s afraid if he says anything, the drowsy composure will break and he’ll burst into tears. 

“You look terrible,” Sherlock says. “Sleeping in chairs, and you haven’t eaten in at least 18 hours, going by the state of congealment on the takeaway cartons in the kitchen. You really must take better care of yourself.” He steeples his hands, one corner of his mouth turned up. 

No tears now. That danger has been replaced by another one: that John will put Sherlock right through the window. See how much he smirks when he’s picking glass shards out of his ass.

John stands. “Welcome home. Now fuck off.” He starts for the stairs. He’s not sure if he’s going up to his room or out the front door, but it’s one or the other. The irony of living with Sherlock: Four days of fretting over his friend’s whereabouts, and now John can’t get away from him fast enough. 

Before he can make it out of the lounge, his arm is grabbed. “Wait.” When John keeps going, the grip tightens. “John. Please.”

It’s the last word which stops him. John can count on one hand—without using the thumb or first two fingers—the number of times that Sherlock has said _please_ to him. Sherlock doesn’t beg, and he doesn’t apologize. He doesn’t care what other people think. Not even John. 

“Why?” John says. “Bloody hell, Sherlock. Why?” He doesn’t have to say the word _cocaine._ He doesn’t have to tell him how worried he’s been, how desperate. One of the times Sherlock’s inhuman abilities are welcome, saving them both the humiliation. John doesn’t have to articulate it, Sherlock can read everything in his face.

Sherlock doesn’t answer, shoulders drooping. He’s been home long enough to have a shower and change clothes. His slightly damp hair curls around his ears, he’s in his favorite old grey t-shirt and striped pajama bottoms, his best blue dressing gown over that. He’s always so heavily clothed even in the summer, swathed in layers like a homeless. Even at home, like the walls of 221-B don’t shelter him enough. Like he’s hiding—but from who?

“Was it the film?” John presses, when he realizes Sherlock isn’t going to say anything. _“The Shadow Son_ —did it upset you somehow? Mycroft seemed to think—”

“Mycroft?” Sherlock has stiffened all over. “You called my brother?”

 _“Yes,”_ John hisses. “I called him. And if there were more than two numbers in your address book—one of them mine—I’d have called them too. You’re lucky I didn’t call Lestrade, but I didn’t want to get him involved. Especially after Mycroft told me what you were doing.”

“I didn’t ask for your concern.” 

“Well, you have it. After four days, the least you can do is give me an explanation.” 

Sherlock’s takes a breath, he opens his mouth. Then he closes it again. He starts to turn away and John, thoroughly brassed off now, grabs Sherlock’s elbow to jerk him back. He sees him wince, and John drops his hand. Then he reaches out again, starting to push up the long, loose sleeve of Sherlock’s dressing gown. Sherlock tries to flinch away, but John stops him with a look. Slowly, he pushes Sherlock’s sleeve past the elbow. 

The crook of Sherlock’s left arm is one angry black bruise, mottled here and there with yellowy spots, and peppered with needle stick after needle stick. Some of these are inflamed, red-purple and puckered. John doesn’t gasp at what he sees—he has seen much worse, though the damage was of a different kind, not self-inflicted. But he’s not going to want breakfast any time soon; his stomach has shrunk into a frozen ball. He’s surprised at how calm his voice sounds, once he finds it. Almost clinical, like he’s back in Afghanistan assessing the carnage. 

“Why needles?” he says. “Smoking and snorting are less—intrusive.”

“Not really,” Sherlock says. His own voice is also calm, like they’re discussing a cadaver on a case. An interesting intellectual problem, nothing personal to either of them. “Snorting can wear a hole in the septum, affect one’s ability to taste and smell. I need my senses. Smoking cocaine is much more damaging to the lungs than cigarettes. It’s also more addictive than other methods. A seven-percent solution injected subcutaneously is really the most logical way.”

“Very logical,” John rasps. He runs his hands down his face. “Go in the bedroom and strip.” When Sherlock stares at him: “Not all the way. Your shirt and dressing gown. I want to assess the worst of the damage.”

“I really don’t think—”

 _“Go,”_ John says between clenched teeth. “Or I’m calling Mycroft, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, and the _Sunday_ bloody _Times._ Fucking do it. I’m not telling you again.”

Sherlock goes. His shoulders are straight, but there’s something meek in his posture. Or perhaps he’s just as exhausted as John feels. 

John goes upstairs for his medical bag. He finds it at once—the clutter of downstairs does not extend to his own room. But he doesn’t leave right away, sitting on the edge of the bed for a moment and deep-breathing. This is why you’re not supposed to treat people you know well. Parents and children, husbands and wives: It’s too emotional. But he’s not sending Sherlock to the A&E, exposing him to the hurried care of an overworked doctor (John has been one himself) who’ll see just another junkie. Even if John were willing, Sherlock wouldn’t go.

He goes back downstairs and stops off at the kitchen, opening the fridge. He takes out a can of the V-8 he drinks in the mornings. When he enters Sherlock’s room, his friend is sitting on the end of the bed, wearing only pajama bottoms and looking peevish, one heel banging impatiently against the leg of the nightstand. “We could have done this in the kitchen,” he says.

“I haven’t cleaned in there, and you’ve been strewing body parts about. You’ve been exposed to enough infections this weekend.” John sets the medical bag on the bed. He hands Sherlock the can of V-8. “Drink this.” When Sherlock wrinkles his nose: “It’s that or a saline drip. Choose.” 

With very bad grace, Sherlock opens the can and sips. While he does, John looks him over. He’s lived with Sherlock nine months, and he’s never seen him this naked before. His flatmate is more fit than he looks in clothes, thin but very defined, his arms sinewy with muscle, belly hard and flat. Sherlock isn’t one for the gym but he does run about constantly, and he also does some sort of mixed martial arts that he’s only vaguely explained to John. Whatever it is, it must be excellent exercise. Except for an old scar on his abdomen, Sherlock’s skin is smooth and very white, which makes the bruises stand out all the more starkly: the ones on his left arm and several more on his shoulders. Not large but livid, like he was hit hard.

 _Not hit,_ John thinks. _Gripped. Those are finger marks._ He blinks at the implications and opens his bag to distract himself. He takes out gloves, disinfectant, and swabs, and gets to work on the track marks. The hydrogen peroxide starts to bubble and it must sting a bit, but Sherlock doesn’t flinch, just keeps sipping juice and watching John with unreadable eyes. When John is finished, he throws the gloves and swabs in the waste bin and says, “You should put Neosporin on them every day. It will help them heal.”

“I know.” Sherlock’s bored tone makes John’s stomach clench.

“You’re such an expert,” he says. “Why did they get so bad in the first place?”

“I’m usually better. Alcohol swabs and small-gauge needles reduce the likelihood of marks. After the first night, things got a bit—chaotic. I was distracted from my best practices. ”

John’s eyes skip to the finger marks, then away. He’s about to close his bag when Sherlock says, “You should get my other side too, since you’re so determined. I scrubbed up in the shower, but you never know.” He finishes the V-8 with one big swallow and sets the can on the nightstand. He stretches out on his stomach so John can see his back. It’s as white as the rest of him and beautifully muscled, the skin sheened like satin. A joy to touch in the right circumstances. 

Someone must have thought so. There are long, deep scratches from the top of Sherlock’s spine to the small of his back, and a bit more bruising. Impossible to tell if it was a man or a woman—fingernail marks have no gender, though the size and depth of the contusions suggests a male, or an unusually vicious female. (Not Irene Adler. Can’t be her, and thank Heaven for small favors. She disappeared weeks ago, after dosing Sherlock with enough ketamine to fell an elephant. Nothing but naughty texts since—she wouldn’t bother with those if she was shagging him.) 

Whoever it was, they left their mark. They touched him, all right. Deep and hard.

John didn’t consider this possibility when Mycroft told him what Sherlock was doing. Even with John’s professional knowledge of the reckless effects of cocaine, and his personal experience of Sherlock’s self-destructive streak, the idea never occurred to him. It would have seemed more unimaginable than the binge itself. Sherlock is so buttoned-up all the time, so fully covered in his layers of cynicism and chilly intellect. He told John their first night together that sex isn’t a consideration. Male or female, it doesn’t matter. 

_I think you should know that I consider myself married to my work, and while I’m flattered by your interest, I’m really not looking for anything._ John has no memory palace like Sherlock’s, but he remembers those words like they were burned into his brain. He remembers his face burning when Sherlock told him. 

John _wasn’t_ looking for anything—a stupid idea, shagging one’s flatmate, Mark Morstan taught him that. If Mark hadn’t, John has put that part of his life firmly behind him. He hasn’t had a man since Sonny Moran; he doesn’t miss that kind of contact. If he did miss it, he wouldn’t be looking at Sherlock, who is beautiful but very strange. The beauty of an alien, one who abducts you and shows you amazing things, just before biting your head off. 

John can’t have Sherlock, and that doesn’t bother him. But he didn’t think anyone else could have him, either. That does bother John, quite a lot. It wasn’t right for them to have him, not like that. Not when he was coked up and out of control. Dangerous alien or no, you don’t treat something beautiful that way. They should have been more careful; it makes John so angry that they weren’t. But he has to step on his emotions and finish the task at hand. 

John goes for the peroxide again. It takes him a couple of tries to get the cap back off—his fingers are a bit shaky, for some reason—but he eventually succeeds and disinfects the scratches, several of which are puffy and inflamed. But they don’t bubble, so there can’t be any serious infection. He stows the bottle and closes the bag. He stands quite still for a moment, gathering his will. Then he comes out with it, and is pleased at the steadiness of his voice: 

“You should have an STD screening. I can get you in at the Clinic tomorrow morning.” 

“Thank you, no. I’ll see to it.”

“See that you do, yeah?”

“I always do.”

“Jesus Christ. How often does this happen?”

Sherlock doesn’t answer. John no longer has the strength to press for one. He picks up his bag and heads for the door. He is almost in the hallway when Sherlock speaks again.

“Too many times,” he says. “It’s why I moved from Montague Street. The flat was quite small, but it had too much silence. It pressed in—it wore me down. My skull feeling like it was going to shatter, spew chaos into the world. The cocaine relieves me. When I’m done, I don’t feel the pressure anymore. It sleeps, so I can sleep.”

“I see,” John says, after a moment. “That’s why you wanted a flatmate. Someone to make a bit of noise. I wondered. Knew it wasn’t about the money, I worked that out months ago.” When Sherlock raises an eyebrow at him: “Come on, you reek of posh. You don’t care about money, like someone who’s never had to care. Business has been booming since I started the blog, but that doesn’t really matter, does it? It’s why I have to nag you to deposit the checks from clients. You don’t need a job to afford this place. You don’t need me.”

“I have the money for the rent. But I _can’t_ afford it, John. Not by myself. Despite the evidence of this weekend, I’m better since I’ve been here.” Sherlock pauses. “I’m better with you.”

“Fuck, Sherlock! I’m not your sober companion. And that’s not even what you want, is it? You resented everything I did just now. You’re like a nervy racehorse that needs a goat for company.”

Sherlock stands up from the bed. Wan and bruised and half-naked, he still has presence. John can feel it from two meters away, a dark, seductive energy. John knows he has been seduced, in every way but physical. It’s why he’s standing here in yesterday’s clothes, faint from fatigue. It’s why he didn’t run from Baker Street the first night. Sherlock said _danger,_ and John came. 

_He was with a man,_ John realizes. _Several men, probably. They scratched and bruised him. They fucked him, and now that it’s over he can sleep. That’s what he’s looking for, when he looks for anything. Don’t forget it. You can’t have him, John. You shouldn’t want to._

Sherlock approaches him. He comes right up close, invading John’s space as he has since the day they met. Filling John’s head until there’s not room for anything else. _You you you you you_ —not touching but seducing, every second of every day. John should run from this, Sally Donovan is probably right about that. But he can’t. Sherlock says _danger,_ and John comes. Let’s not think too much about that double entendre.

“You’re not a goat,” Sherlock says. “You’re not background noise.”

“What am I, then?” 

“I got your message. I was far away, but I heard it. That’s what you are, John.” Sherlock’s voice drops to a whisper. “You said ‘come home.’ And I came.”

Sherlock doesn’t often touch him. Sherlock doesn’t touch now. But John feels that pale grey gaze like a touch. He feels it like fingers on his flesh. Deep and hard, leaving permanent marks. 

John doesn’t answer him. He doesn’t know how. Maybe if he wasn’t so tired and confused. If Sherlock wasn’t covered with track marks and finger marks. If Sherlock wasn’t so beautiful and strange, and if John wasn’t straight (for all intents and purposes). Then he could answer him. But none of these things are true. So John is silent. 

Sherlock steps back. “You should sleep,” he says. “I’m going to. If my brother calls, tell him I’m dead. Or at the market. Whichever you think he’ll believe.” He’s still looking at John, but his gaze is different. Not so heavy or so deep. Mostly sleepy. 

John blinks at him. “Right, okay. You do that.” He turns away, a strange heaviness in his chest. He doesn’t want to call it disappointment. It must be relief.

Before he can go, Sherlock speaks again. “You flushed the coke.” It’s not a question.

John stops. “Yes, all of it.”

Sherlock’s expression is half-amused, half-irritated. “You know I can buy more.”

“Yeah. You can buy as much as you want, enough to fry that giant brain of yours good and proper. But you know what? You won’t.” John is suddenly shaking, all the anger he’s been pressing down boiling to the surface. “You _won’t,_ Sherlock. You won’t disappear like that again. You won’t stash your shit in our home. This is another message you must take seriously. Because if you don’t, it’s the last one you’ll get from me. Do you understand?” He holds those grey eyes until Sherlock nods slowly. John exits without looking at him again.

He’s forcing down cereal in the kitchen when the phone in the lounge rings. He knows who it is before he looks at Caller ID. It can’t be anyone else: John doesn’t have clinic until tomorrow, Stamford is out of town, Jeannette is probably still mad at him for canceling dinner on Saturday. It occurs to John that maybe the Holmes’ aren’t wizards. They just don’t have many friends.

“He’s home,” John says. 

“Satisfactory,” Mycroft replies. “Do let me know if there are any more developments.”

“He should see a doctor. Not me, someone detached. He needs an STD panel and a full exam.” John is _not_ doing that: Someday he may have to inspect Sherlock for anal tears, but not today.

“I know his doctors. I’ll make the appointment.”

“We don’t know where he’s been. They should check for everything. Syphilis, hepatitis, herpes, the whole happy crew.” John takes a breath and just says it: “HIV.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that. I’ve had him vaccinated.”

John has to sit down in the leather chair. “You’re telling me that your people have developed—”

“Yes. It’s years away from public trials, of course. But as far as we can tell, quite effective.”

“I can’t bloody believe it,” John says to the room. Not to Mycroft: He _is_ a wizard. An evil one.

“If you’re interested, I could arrange an injection for you.”

“Thanks, but no,” John says, after a second’s consideration. Of all the people he could owe, he doesn’t want to owe Mycroft Holmes.

“I didn’t think so. You have a taste for danger, but you’re not reckless. Not like Sherlock.” 

John looks down the hall towards Sherlock’s room. No sounds emerge from it. John probably wouldn’t hear anything if he put his ear to the door. If he opened it, Sherlock would be asleep, silent and still as someone in a coma. That’s his normal pattern, silence and stillness. Until he shatters, and the chaos comes out.

“What happened to him in California, Mycroft?” John asks. “Why was he even there?”

Mycroft is quiet so long, John doesn’t think he’s going to answer. But finally he does, in a tone John has not heard from him before. None of that nursery brightness, like John is five years old and has to be humored. If it were anyone else, John would think Mycroft is sad. 

“He fell in with bad company,” Mycroft says. “A gap year gone awry; I shouldn’t have let him go. You were right about that. Presumptuous, but right. I should have kept closer watch on him. I knew it wasn’t a good environment, not for Sherlock. He’s always been—sensitive. The world is too much with him.” Mycroft pauses, and when he speaks again his voice is very quiet. “That is probably my fault, too. But there’s nothing I can do about it now. Except vaccinate him.” 

“I’ll watch out for him,” John says. “I’ll do my best.”

“He has been better since he met you,” Mycroft says. “I’m glad you two found each other.”

John grips the phone too tight. He really shouldn’t react to Mycroft’s needling, but it’s been a long fucking weekend. “When are you going to get it through your head? _I’m not gay.”_

“I think Dr. Morstan would disagree, don’t you? Not to mention your friend in Afghanistan. Our American cousins are tight-lipped about that sort of thing; they don’t like to ask _or_ tell. But it’s easy enough to read between the lines.” Before John can talk around the huge, hot lump in his throat: “Don’t worry, your secret is safe with me. It’s not really my concern. But it’s something you should be asking yourself, John. Why won’t you ask, and why don’t you tell? It seems like needless obfuscation. Nothing you could say would shock my brother. I can assure you of that.”

Mycroft ends the call quickly, like he doesn’t want to hear John call him a sneaking cunt. But he could have stayed on all day; John is totally speechless. 

He puts his half-finished bowl of cereal in the sink. He goes upstairs to his room and lies on the bed. When he sleeps, his dreams are sad and jumbled. Searching for that dark, seductive figure down an endlessly curving passage, coming close to him but never quite reaching. The figure is so strange and beautiful. Unknowable and untouchable. Always and forever slipping away.


	15. Chapter 15

** John, 2011 **

Irene fixes Sherlock with her wide cat’s eyes. “I would have you right here, on this desk, until you begged for mercy twice.”

Sherlock’s face is blank. Not a thoughtful blank or—God forbid—a sick blank, the kind that preceded his binge last October. This blankness isn’t that, but John still doesn’t care for it. 

“John, please could you check those flight schedules?” Sherlock says, keeping his gaze fixed on Irene. “See if I’m right.”

“Yeah,” John mumbles, forcing his gaze from the weirdness taking place above his head. “I’m on it.” But Sherlock’s attention is already elsewhere—it never really wavered. 

“I’ve never begged for mercy in my life,” he says to her.

_“Twice.”_

John has pulled up the page for Flyaway Airlines, scanning fast. “You’re right. Flight 007.”

Sherlock finally turns his head to look at John. “What did you say?”

“You’re right.” 

“No, after that. What did you say after that?”

“007. Flight 007.”

“007, 007, 007. Something—something. 007. 007. 007. What?” Sherlock says under his breath. Now his gaze is on nobody in the room. His whole focus turned inward, as it was a few seconds ago when he cracked the code. “007, 007, what—what—something. _What?”_ He turns around to stare into the antechamber, but he doesn’t seem to be seeing what’s in front of his eyes. 

John recognizes the signs, so he’s not a bit surprised a minute later when Sherlock sits down in his chair, violin in hand. Soon the air is filled with the sound of random notes. Not really music at all, just something for Sherlock’s body to do while his mind is away. This strange exercise would drive some people mad, but John has never minded it. Happens at least once a week: It’s when John gets a lot of the cleaning done.

“What is he—” Irene begins, but John shakes his head at her. 

“He’ll come back. You should be flattered: He’s really working on this for you. Just—occupy yourself. No telly, though, he’ll start raging. There’s plenty of books about.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Well, the kitchen’s clean, and Mrs. Hudson likes to do the dusting. I have some notes to type up.” John takes his laptop over to the sofa. Irene gives an impatient huff, running her hands through her damp hair. She plucks a book at random from the shelf and plops down in the chair opposite Sherlock. Her eyes cut to him, like she’s expecting her close presence will be enough to rouse him from his reverie. _Fat chance of that,_ John thinks, suppressing a smile and bringing up Word. For the next two hours, the room is silent except for the sound of warbling strings. 

John is just finishing typing up “The Blue Carbuncles” (retired microbiologist takes against his neighbors; hysterical villagers in Essex running about with indigo boils the size of pound coins), when Irene tosses the first volume of _Mansfield Park_ across the room. 

“Hey!” John says. “Careful.” That little book is worth more than the diamond she’s wearing, but he isn’t going to tell her that. She’d probably nick it.

“Bloody Austen. Teacups and sexual repression. Rubbish.” 

“Thank your lucky stars for sexual repression. You wouldn’t have a job without it.”

Irene leans forward. “What _is_ he doing?” she says, squinting at Sherlock. “He looks brain dead.”

“Hardly. He’s thinking.”

“About what?”

That’s the $64,000 question. John has tried to picture the inside of Sherlock’s head from time to time. He alternates between a Monty Python cartoon, an Escher maze, and a Hieronymus Bosch apocalyptic orgy. Maybe it’s none of these. Or all three. Who knows how an alien thinks?

“I don’t know,” John says. “Leave him alone. He can’t hear you.”

“How long will he be like this?”

“His record since I’ve been living here is 14 hours.”

“That can’t be healthy.”

“I check his pulse every so often. He’s fine.”

“He can’t be.” Irene kneels by Sherlock, looking into his eyes. If he sees her, he gives no sign, his gaze as blank and fixed as a marble Apollo’s. “He can’t go on like this. It’s—freakish.” 

Though Irene is about the last person John wants to spend a quiet evening with, he really has been trying to get along. Good of the case and all that. But who the fuck does she think she is, calling Sherlock a freak? She laces herself in a corset and spanks naughty MPs for a living.

Irene taps one talon-like nail on the arm of Sherlock’s chair. “We have to distract him. How?”

“Dunno. Why don’t you get your tits out again?”

Irene’s head jerks around, fixing John with a cold stare. “I would, but you’d enjoy it too much.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

“I’m not. I’ve plenty of people to do that for me.” She tilts her head at him. “You know I look good. You looked long enough that day at my house.”

“Of course I was looking. I see a two-headed baby, I’m looking.”

“My tits are _not_ a two-headed baby.”

“Nope. Too small.”

Irene stands up, crossing the room. She folds herself into the tufted chair next to the sofa, posing as elegantly as one can in a dressing gown that’s five sizes too big. “You don’t like me. Why?” 

“I’ve no idea. You drugged and beat my best friend. You’ve mind-fucked him for nine solid months. Can’t imagine why I wouldn’t like you.”

“Hmm,” Irene says. “I don’t think it’s the _mind_ -fucking you’re concerned about.”

John rolls his eyes. “Yes. I’m very jealous.”

“You are. Pea-green with it. If you want his virginity so badly, John, you should just take it. But you’ll have to hurry if you want to beat me.” She looks at the clock on the table. Then she looks at Sherlock, strumming the violin and lost in cloudcuckooland. “Twelve hours. Maybe sooner, if I can get him back from orbit.” 

John stares at her for a full five seconds. “His virginity?” He throws back his head and laughs. “Oh my God. You can’t be serious.”

“About you beating me? No, I’m not. Sorry, lovey, he’s mine.” She shakes her head at John sadly. “You could have had him, you know. You’re not much of a dish, but you’ve been loyal, and he’s rather gagging for it. You _could_ have him, if you weren’t such a bloody coward.”

John shuts down his laptop, closing the lid. He’s careful in his movements, paying attention to his breathing. He’s not angry at the insults—John’s ego has never been based in his looks, and he doesn’t give a damn what she thinks, anyway. But the casual way she talks about seducing his friend, like it’s a game they’re playing and Sherlock’s the prize—that pisses him right off. 

When some of the red has cleared from his vision, John looks at her and says, “You don’t know him. And you really don’t know me. But you did get one thing right: I don’t like you. You’re a liar and a manipulator, and you’re not as smart as you think.”

“Smart enough to know he wants me,” Irene says. “You know it too, don’t you? Maybe you didn’t get hard that day at my house. But Sherlock did.”

“Of course he did. What do you think gets him off? You’re a puzzle. Just another case for him to solve. Do you know what he does with his cases once he’s cracked them? Shoves them in a drawer and never thinks of them again. We’ve got a cabinet full of dusty old files, dear. That’s where you’ll be as soon as he unlocks the camera phone. Out of sight, out of mind.”

Irene just stares at John, saying nothing. But John can see the wheels turning, that cold machine she calls a brain working madly. She _is_ beautiful, even if John finds her about as appealing as a black widow spider. All points and angles, this one, big grey eyes over high cheekbones. Thin as a lathe but elegant, darkly seductive. John wonders if she sees it. That Sherlock’s infatuation, if there is one, is pure narcissism. John isn’t going to tell Irene this: It’s the one thing that really worries him. If an alien were going to choose a mate, wouldn’t it be another alien? 

“You’re in love with him.” Irene’s smile is sympathetic, but her eyes are ice. “That’s why you haven’t had him: You’re waiting for him to love you back. How romantic.”

“Right. I’m done.” John stands up from the sofa, heading for the door.

“Retreating so soon? You’ve spent too much time in Afghanistan, Captain Watson. That’s no way to win a war.”

John pauses on the threshold, regarding her with something like pity. “Two things I learned in Afghanistan: know your territory and proceed with caution. You know what happens when you don’t? Someone pops out of nowhere and takes your fucking head off. That’s what it’s like over there, Irene. That’s war. This is just London, and you’re just a prostie with aspirations. You’ve no idea who you’re dealing with. When the Holmes brothers get through with you, don’t ask me to sew you back together. I stopped doing triage years ago.”

“Very eloquent. I can see why your blog has so many fans.” Irene shrugs one bony shoulder. “Prattle on all you like: I’m still going to beat you.”

John looks at Sherlock, motionless by the fire. Amazing to think that he can’t hear any of this. As little as Sherlock is interested in love (or sex, when he isn’t coked out of his mind), he’d have to be intrigued by this conversation. For a moment John wonders where Sherlock is right now. What inner landscape he’s traveling, what he’s finding there: campy Queen Victorias and giant feet, endless staircases and fish-eye mirrors, writhing sinners and gleeful devils. All of this, or none of it. What does the undiscovered country look like? John can’t know. But you could get lost there, he knows that. A dangerous territory, where anything could happen. 

“Go on. Have him then,” John says. “If you can.”

“Thanks. I will.” Irene stretches lazily, with the confidence of someone who has spent a lifetime learning what men like. It’s amazing that she doesn’t see it. Sherlock _isn’t_ a man, any more than Mycroft is. Not by the conventional definitions. Given her own alien nature, Irene probably will work it out eventually. But not before it’s too late. John should feel satisfied at this, but there is nothing satisfying about this situation. Not one fucking thing. 

_I need a fucking drink,_ he thinks, as he heads down the stairs to the front door.

He doesn’t go to the Volunteer, his regular pub across the street. He has a speaking acquaintance with some of the other customers, and John doesn’t feel like making idle conversation with those blokes. He keeps going south on Baker Street. He could take a cab, but he’s not sure where he wants to go. It’s better just to walk and try not to think. About what Irene might be up to, now that John has left her the field. What schemes are clicking in that evil clockwork brain of hers.

_I don’t think it’s the mind-fucking you’re concerned about._

Perhaps he should have stayed. Yes, he should have. But John has never hit a woman in his life, and he doesn’t want to start now. Besides, Irene is very mean. She’d probably hit back.

_You could have him if you weren’t such a bloody coward._

See? Mean. Also delusional. John can’t have him and doesn’t want him, even though the STD panel came back clean. Sherlock made a point of showing him, for some reason. 

_You’re in love. You’re waiting for him to love you back._

John doesn’t fall in love with men. If he did, he wouldn’t fall in love with Sherlock. If he _did,_ he’s not mad enough to wait for Sherlock’s heart to grow the requisite three sizes. No. _No._ NO.

The sweet old couple walking near John stops and give him a very strange look. He realizes he said those last few words aloud—shouted them, really. John gives them a smile that’s meant to be disarming, but they just scowl at him with their crabapple faces and hustle off into the tube. 

John notes the sign on the tube station and realizes he’s somehow ended up all the way down by Marble Arch. He can see the trees of Hyde Park not far away. His feet are starting to hurt, and he’s still in desperate need of a drink. He’s looks around for the nearest pub. Luck is with him: there’s one right next door, a cheerful-looking place with red awnings and lots of hanging ferns. THE COCK AND BULL, proclaim the gold capital letters over the windows. 

Inside it’s also cheerful, a traditional pub with a curving, polished wood bar lit by amber lamps. They give a warm glimmer to the ceiling-high shelves of bottles and glasses, the many beer taps emblazoned with the logos of various breweries. The whole place is done up in shades of red: magenta ceilings, crimson-patterned wallpaper and carpet, ruby velvet curtains, and a maroon-tiled fireplace. The colors make the place feel cozy and wintry, though it’s the middle of June. 

There are wooden tables with mismatched chairs scattered around the room, a huge, gorgeous jukebox between the two large windows, and just one television, in a corner and turned down low. John likes the feel of the place instantly. The only sour note is the music on the jukebox: aggressive, thumping techno that drills into his temples. But the annoying song appears to be fading, so he decides to bear it and head to the bar. 

It’s Wednesday and football has ended, so the pub isn’t very crowded. John gets the attention of the bartender immediately, a voluptuous older woman with blue-shadowed brown eyes and piles of red hair, curled and teased into a coppery mountain atop her head. She gives him the practiced smile of one of her profession, inviting but no-nonsense. 

“Hello, love. What’ll it be, then? The special tonight is steak-and-ale pie, and the soup of the day is minestrone. Not from a tin, either—organic vegetables, lovely stuff. Cocktails are half-price until ten, and pints are £2.50.” She fixes her expectant gaze on him. 

For lots of good reasons, John usually avoids hard liquors. He opens his mouth to ask for a pint of Heineken, but what comes out is, “Glenfiddich, neat.”

“Brilliant.” She pours him his scotch, and John drinks it in one go. It’s so good he sets down the empty glass and signals for another, which he downs just as quickly. That one was even better.

“Easy, love. Plenty more where that came from.”

“Could you leave the bottle, please?”

“If you like. But slow down, okay? I don’t want to be calling your missus and explaining why we’re carrying you out of here feet first.”

“I don’t have—”

“Oi, Nev!” she’s glaring at a man by the jukebox. “Choose carefully, my boy. Play that ‘Eleanor Rigby’ shite again and I’m tossing you out on your tight little ass.”

The man tilts his head at her. He’s John’s age or thereabouts, fair-skinned and small, dressed in jeans and a rather shabby black sweater. He pushes his wavy dark hair back from his face with a quick, bird-like gesture. “But it’s the Beatles,” he says.

“It’s depressing is what it is. Nobody wants to hear it.”

He winks at her. “But all the lonely people, Sheila. Where _do_ they all come from?” 

“I don’t bloody care. Don’t play it.”

The man frowns and turns back to the jukebox. He pushes some buttons, and the blistering guitar solo that opens the Beatles’ “Revolution” blares from the overhead speakers. He turns back to her. “Happy?” 

“Marginally. Though if you’re so fascinated by classic rock, you could at least play the Stones. We’ve got _Sticky Fingers_ and _Beggars Banquet_ on there.”

The man shakes his head sadly, hair flopping back in his face. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that. For the sake of our relationship.” He fishes a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket. “I’m going for a quick smoke. Don’t change the music. I’ve put four songs in, and I can hear them just fine from the alley.” He heads out the back door.

Sheila rolls her eyes and turns her attention once more to John. “Can I get you anything else?”

“No,” John says. “Thanks.” 

He takes the bottle and heads to a table in the corner. Aware of Sheila’s watchful eye, he sips his third drink more slowly, making it last through the rest of “Revolution” and all of “Strawberry Fields Forever.” Away from the tensions of Baker Street his mood has improved, but he’s still not what you could call gleeful. He’s glad there’s lots of scotch left.

Lennon is twisting and shouting, and John is pouring a fourth drink, when suddenly a voice next to him says, “Let me guess: It’s woman troubles. The wife wants you to take her on holiday to Blackpool, and you want to go hunting in Scotland with your mates.” 

John looks up. Standing by his table is the man from the jukebox. This close, he’s a bit younger than John originally thought, no more than 30. His face is boyishly handsome, with large, light blue eyes and red lips curling in a roguish smile. 

“Well?” he asks. “Am I right?”

“No. Not even close.”

“Hmm.” The man narrows his gaze a bit. “Girlfriend, then. She wants a ring and you’re not sure she’s the one. But you’re not sure she _isn’t_ the one, so you can’t just chuck her and start over.”

_“No.”_

“Right, okay. It’s work. You’ve been up for a big promotion and—”

“I’m sorry, who are you again?”

“Neville St. Clair. And yes, that is my real name. Don’t know what my mother was thinking. My brother got off much easier. _David_ —images of Biblical kings and football gods. Meanwhile, I’m stuck with bloody Neville and its wretched connotations—worst prime minister ever and the git from Harry Potter. Pair it with St. Clair and what have you got? Geeky gay porn star. Mum always did like Davy best.” 

Neville extends his hand and John shakes it, smiling in spite of himself. Part of it is the three whiskeys currently making a nice little bonfire in his belly. The rest is the man’s infectious charm, as palpable as his grip. 

Neville breaks the handshake and takes a last swallow from his nearly empty pint. “May I sit?”

“Please.” John waves him into a chair. “I’m John.”

“Now there’s a nice name,” Neville says. “You can do anything with John, can’t you? You could even hook it to St. Clair and still have something to work with. I should have been John. Might have been Prime Minister—a good one. No handing Czechoslovakia to the Nazis.”

“There’s a footballer named Neville Chamberlain.”

“Yes, but he played for sodding Arsenal. No joy there.” 

“I’m an Arsenal fan.”

“Good Lord! And you looked like such a nice fellow. But I’ll forgive your barbaric allegiances if you’ll share some of that very fine whiskey.”

John passes the bottle over. “Ta,” Neville says, pouring a shot into his empty glass. He takes a sip. Then another, larger one. He holds his glass up to the light. “Oh! Sweet mystery of life, at last I’ve found you.” He turns back to him. “So, John. What do you do, besides so generously sharing your liquor?”

“I’m a doctor.”

“Nice! Guess what I do.”

John pauses to finish his drink. “I don’t know. Detective?”

“Why on earth would you say that?”

“You were saying all those things about me when I sat down.”

“Yes, but I was wrong, wasn’t I? Nearly always am. I’m a writer, perhaps that’s why I like to imagine things about people. Though technically I’m a journalist, so I suppose I should be a bit more concerned with truth. Unless I want to go write for the _Sun_ or something.”

Neville St. Clair. Put in that context, the odd moniker does ring a bell. “Who do you write for?” 

“I’ve been published all over. I like to freelance; never been much good at being tied down. These days I’m mostly obsessed with my blog. _The Twisted Lip,_ maybe you’ve heard of it?”

John has, indeed, heard of it. All the muck that’s fit to rake, and then some: Tories, tycoons, and other fatcats beware. But _The Twisted Lip_ also features the occasional pop-culture piece, delivered with the same scathing wit and crystalline insight as the more serious stories. John looks at the man across from him with new respect. 

“You did that six-part series in _The Guardian,”_ he says. “Homelessness in Southwark.”

“You read it?” Neville looks pleased. 

“I did. You really slept rough and worked as a panhandler for six weeks?”

“Sure. Made more as a beggar than I do as a journalist.”

“Really?”

“No, not really,” Neville says. “Those poor fucking kids.” He’s quiet for a minute, his mobile features still. Then he rouses himself. “What did you think?”

 _I think you’re a lot less silly than you like to let on._ But what John says is: “I liked it.”

“So did the editors. They’ve offered me a permanent position. Good money, but it does mean putting my neck a bit more in harness. Still, _money.”_ Neville runs an anxious hand through his hair. “I told them I’d have to think about it. So here I am, in the pub, thinking. Also drinking.” He takes a swallow of scotch. “Why are you here? You never said.”

“If I told you a delusional dominatrix has driven me from my flat, would you believe it?”

“No, but it’d make a bloody good novella. Or maybe a movie— _Eraserhead_ with tits.” 

John laughs, but it’s more a response to Neville’s tone than actual amusement, since he’s never seen _Eraserhead._ A sudden silence falls. Before it can grow uncomfortable, it’s interrupted by Neville’s fourth selection on the jukebox.

_Hey Jude, don’t make it bad  
Take a sad song and make it better  
Remember to let her into your heart  
Then you can start to make it better_

“I love this song,” John says.

“Don’t we all.” 

“My mum was a big Beatles fan. She had all their records.”

“Lucky you. My mother’s knowledge of modern music begins and ends with Roger Whittaker.” Neville gives a shiver of mock-horror.

John smiles but doesn’t answer. He’s too focused on the memory coming to him. Perhaps it’s the drink but it’s so clear, though he hasn’t thought of it in years. Sharp but sepia-tinted, like all of his recollections of the early 1980s. He’s sitting next to Mum on the big bed in her and Dad’s room. His fingers are gripping a crayon, coloring. Hers are gripping a red pen, grading English compositions. All those sheets of notebook paper are spread out on the quilt, some drifting to the floor like stray autumn leaves. He liked to pick him up for her, rearrange them neatly. Helping her. All the while, the scratchy old records played. Sometimes she would stop grading during a good bit, singing along. She had a nice voice. 

_Hey Jude, don't let me down  
You have found her, now go and get her  
Remember to let her into your heart  
Then you can start to make it better_

They brought her records to the hospital, too. Those last few weeks. But Mum didn’t sing then.

John blinks and comes back. He looks at his companion. “Sorry. Were you saying something?”

“No,” Neville says. He taps his fingers thoughtfully on the table. 

John pours his fifth shot of whiskey, downing most of it. The room is starting to tilt a little, but it’s not an unpleasant sensation. Better than how he’d be feeling without the booze.

“If you’re not going to tell me why you’re here, can I have another guess?” Neville says.

“Are you sure? You’re quite bad at this.”

“Never get any better if I don’t practice, will I?” 

“Guess away,” John says, and finishes his drink. He’s prepared to listen to more of Neville’s absurd deductions. The pub is cheerful and the scotch is excellent and the company is amusing. He could stay all night. 

“You’re lonely,” Neville says. “More than a little confused. Whatever is waiting in your flat, you can’t face it yet. You don’t want to go home.” He tilts his head at John, the light from the overhead lamp hitting his eyes, turning them a piercing shade of grey. “You want distraction. Solace.”

John stares at him open-mouthed. Neville puts a hand on John’s wrist, fingers tracing over the knobby bone. Just a light touch; it doesn’t presume. But it _promises_ —oh, it promises quite a lot. 

John stays very still. He’s afraid to move, the room suddenly spinning faster, a sweet dizziness like his head is filling with champagne. He feels himself flushing all over, the heat from his belly spreading outwards. He shouldn’t have had that last drink. But somehow he can’t regret it. 

The moment seems to stretch out, the bright pub dimmed to a circle of just the two of them. Just them, and the music. Paul McCartney at the peak of his powers, not a love song like so many of his greatest hits but something quite different, an anthem of comfort for a little boy, sad and lost. It’s John’s favorite Beatles song and this is his favorite part, the chorus at its glorious crescendo, enough hope in those few measures to cheer an entire generation of unhappy children. The same words repeated over and over, half-nonsense but genius, all the same.

_Na na na  
Na na na na  
Na na na na  
Hey Jude!_

_Na na na  
Na na na na  
Na na na na  
Hey Jude!_

That amazing music, mixed up with the best memories of his childhood, all those lost sensations. The slick quilt under his fingers, the smell of crayons and his mummy’s perfume. The feel of her hand on his head, her soft fingers in his hair. Warmth and safety like nothing he’s known since.

Neville leans in. “So, John,” he whispers. “Was I close?”

Slowly, John nods. 

Neville smiles. He has the smirk of a wicked schoolboy. But John can see the man behind it, brilliant and a bit world-weary. But kind— _warm._ John is so tired of coldness.

“My flat is five minutes from here,” Neville says. “Will you come?”

“Yes,” John says. “But I—I can’t stay. I have commitments.”

Neville pats John’s hand. “Don’t we all.” He turns his head to ask Sheila for the check.


	16. Chapter 16

** John, 2011 (cont.) **

Looked at upside down, the picture over Neville’s bed is even more interesting than it is right side up: a giant green apple enclosed in a grey stone cell. The apple is almost as big as the cell, it seems to press against the edges of the painting. A single arched window relieves its entrapment, through it you can see a tiny bit of blue sky, a few wispy clouds. If you could reach through the window, you could touch the apple. You could feel its ripe, glossy dimensions. You could even take a bite if you so desired, swallow down all that sharp sweetness. But nobody will ever enjoy it; the window is too high up. The apple will push against the walls of its prison forever.

This is what John thinks as he tilts his head back and regards it, an oversized print that takes up most of the high, white wall. What he says is, “Nice picture.” 

He blows out smoke and hands the spliff back to Neville, who takes it and says, “Magritte, _The Listening Room._ I had _The Son of Man_ in my dorm room at uni—you remember, the git in the bowler hat? Sort of a cliché now, though. Rene and his green apples, I still like them. So did Paul McCartney, that’s where he got the logo for Apple Records.” Neville takes a long drag on the joint, regarding John with a pleased, stoned gaze. 

“I think it’s rather sad. The apple is trapped.”

“Never thought of it that way.” Neville considers the painting a moment. “There could be a door behind the apple. Or in front of it, we can’t see the fourth wall. Maybe the apple could leave any time he likes.” He passes the joint back to John. 

“That’s very optimistic.”

Neville stretches his slim white arms. “I’m always optimistic after sex. Especially good sex. Jesus, John: I haven’t had a seeing to like that since I did my piece for _Time Out_ on the best gay clubs in London. Sampled quite a few back rooms—wanted to be sure of my facts, journalistic integrity and all that. Fun couple of weeks, even if I did get the crabs.” 

John gives a sharp exhalation of smoke. “Shit. Am I going to start itching now?”

“Of course not. That was a year ago. I’ve washed the sheets at least twice since then.” 

Neville grins and takes the joint from John’s fingers. He has one last hit and offers it back, but John shakes his head: On top of the five shots of scotch, he’s going to have a hard enough time getting home. He will go, as soon as his brain stops buzzing and he can properly stand up. In the meantime John just puts his arms behind his head, enjoying the pleasantly achy feeling in his muscles. Maybe it’s been a year since Neville has had a really good seeing to, but it’s been even longer since John has seen to anyone like that. He doesn’t know what got into himself, in fact. As soon as Neville opened the door to the flat John was on him; he sucked him off in the vestibule and fucked him twice on the bed before they came up for air and weed. 

Then again, he hasn’t been getting much of anything these past few months, not since he broke up with his last girlfriend. (Elizabeth—legal secretary—thick ankles—thicker wits: Sherlock’s description, not John’s.) When you water a dry spell with too much booze, things are bound to get chaotic. John has no regrets, though this is going firmly in the one night stand category. It’s not like he can bring this one home and show him off, is it? That isn’t something that’s going to happen, even if Neville is slender of limb and quick of wit (unlike poor silly Lizzy).

Neville stubs out the joint in the ashtray on the nightstand, then turns back to John. “You have quite the inscrutable stare,” he says. “Has anyone ever told you that?”

“I’ve been told I’m quite easy to read, actually.”

“You must have a perspicacious circle of friends. _I_ don’t know what you’re thinking. Who are you, kind stranger? Where do you come from?” Neville runs a hand over John’s left arm. “How did you get this terrible scar?”

John blinks at him. Then he makes himself smile. “Guess.”

“Are we back to that? All right.” Neville narrows his eyes. “Hunting with Dick Cheney?”

“No.”

“Hunting with the Royals. You brought up Harry and the Nazi armband, and the Queen took it amiss. What the hell happened to that boy, anyway? I mean, besides all the vodka-snorting and vicious inbreeding.”

“My invitation to Balmoral didn’t arrive last year. Must have got lost in the post.” 

“Stupid post. But even with the invite, my theory wouldn’t make sense. I hear Betty Battenberg is a crack shot. If she wanted to shoot you in the face, you’d be shot.”

“I’d probably deserve it. Did nick one of her ashtrays.”

“What?” 

John shakes his head. “Never mind. Silly joke.”

Neville’s fingers trace the damage. His fingers dip into the depression where the bullet went in, then run over the scar that extends down John’s bicep. That’s from where the surgeons repaired the vein that got severed by the bullet. It’s why he almost bled out in the field. If they had been any slower getting that tourniquet on, he would have. Don’t let the movies mislead you: A shot in the arm can be as bad as a shot in the head. John has the nerve damage to prove it.

“You got this in Afghanistan or Iraq,” Neville says. “Nearly fatal, wasn’t it?”

“You and your third guesses.” John twists away. “You’re perspicacious enough, aren’t you?”

“It’s not that big a leap. Where else would a nice doctor get such a wicked scar? And your gait, your haircut. There’s something soldierly about you.”

“So I’ve heard.” John sits up, running hands through his hair and sighing. “Afghanistan, since you’re so curious.”

“I almost went to the Middle East.” When John raises both eyebrows at him: “Not on active duty. There’s nothing soldierly about me. I had the opportunity to be a foreign correspondent for the BBC. Dangerous work, but exciting. I was mad to go.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“My wife threw a fit. I suppose I can’t blame her. She was pregnant with our daughter, and she had visions of Daniel Pearl dancing in her head. I told her it’s unlikely they’d cut _my_ head off, but somehow that didn’t bring her comfort.” 

John looks at the front door. It’s easy enough to do, Neville’s flat basically consisting of one big room with high ceilings. “Your wife? She isn’t—”

“Angela is in Kent with her new husband. He’s not as perspicacious as me, but he’s a lot less queer. I suppose that’s something.” Neville shrugs, but the look in his eyes isn’t so casual. A hurt that hasn’t quite healed yet. “I see Sophie—that’s our little girl—two weekends a month. Angie was generous, all things considered.” 

John doesn’t ask what he means by this. It’s really not his business, and Neville doesn’t look like he wants to talk about it. After a moment Neville’s face clears and he says, “Dr. Soldier. Wow. I know you’re a generous bloke, but how did you ever make _that_ your profession?”

“One of my whims, I suppose.”

“I can just see you in the desert, running around taking care of people, bossing everybody for their own good. You’re an oldest child, aren’t you? My brother David used to manage me like that. Thank God he had kids young. It gave him another outlet.”

“I’m the eldest, yeah. But I have a younger sister.”

“Even better. Growing up, I bet you looked after your little sis like she was made out of glass.”

John certainly tried. Mostly he succeeded. Only one time did his attention really waver, when he was twelve and Harry was nine. He went to his friend’s to get a look at Nate’s Nintendo—he was the first kid in their Council house to have one. John left Harry on the playground, whirling on the roundabout with her little mates. Just for an hour, John made sure to watch the time. But he and Nate were interrupted in the middle of _Super Mario_ by a chorus of high-pitched screams. 

John rushed out to see Harry on the ground unconscious, her arm twisted under her, a big gash on her temple, so red against her pale, pale skin. She’d been doing flips off the damn monkey bars again, fallen at a bad angle and hit her head on one of the metal supports. John had told her a dozen times to stop it. If he’d been with her she never would have tried it. But he wasn’t with her, he was at sodding Nate’s playing sodding Nintendo. As John stood frozen, Nate ran yelling for his mum, and Mrs. Walker called the ambulance. They came and took Harry away. 

At A&E with Nate’s mum, she had her arm around John, talking to him, but he didn’t hear any of it. Too busy listening to the voice inside, the same three sentences over and over: _You should have been watching her. Now she’s dead. It’s all your fault._ For two hours that’s all he heard, until at last the doctor came out. Dr. Cohen was his name, John will always remember it. He remembers the doctor’s smile when he told John that Harry was awake, and everything would be all right. Dr. Cohen was short and fat with big bags under his eyes, but to John he looked like an angel. He _was:_ He saved Harry and he saved John, who could never have lived with the guilt.

Dad didn’t come in until about three hours later. When he saw Harry, so white and small in the hospital bed, a cast on her arm and a bandage on her head, he cried all over Nate’s mum. He was drunk of course, just reeking of cheap booze—John saw the disgust on Mrs. Walker’s face as she tried to peel him off. John hated his father in that moment, he hated him so much. He wanted to kill him, with the clear, cold desire of a child, unfettered by morals or consequences. It was good that Dr. Cohen came by then and shooed them out, but in some ways it was worse. The doctor’s calm and capable manner contrasting with his father’s utter uselessness: John can still feel the humiliation of it, burning him like a fever. 

James Watson couldn’t help being an alcoholic, any more than his daughter can help it today. Dad was a good man when he wasn’t drunk. When John was growing up, he didn’t hate his father most of the time. He doesn’t hate him now. But that doesn’t mean he’s forgiven him. 

“John?” 

He blinks and comes back. Neville is looking at him with a concerned expression.

“Sorry,” John says, trying to smile. “Fugued for a minute. That was excellent weed. Probably shouldn’t have done it, though.” He hasn’t indulged in almost a decade. Not since he joined the RAMC. You could get any kind of drug you liked in Afghanistan if you knew who to ask. But John was breaking rules aplenty over there, between the alcohol and the sex. He didn’t need more complications. Since he’s been in London, he’s had an even better reason to abstain.

“Why not? Weed is no worse than scotch, really.” Neville twists to grab the still-viable joint. He takes the lighter from the nightstand and sparks it again.

“I have a friend. He’s had serious problems with drugs. It’s not a good example to set.”

“Generous Dr. John. Always thinking of other people’s needs. What about his own?”

“I’ve thought of my own needs plenty this evening,” John points out.

Neville tokes and grins. “Bet it’s an exception, though. You don’t get what you want very often.”

“I do too,” John says, frowning. Really, Neville presumes a lot on a few hours’ acquaintance. “I know what I want. What do you bloody want?”

Neville crawls a little closer on the bed. Stripped down to nothing, he’s as skinny as a boy. But there’s nothing boyish about the expression in his eyes. The heat John sees there.

“I want to fuck you,” he says. “I’ve wanted to since you came scowling into the pub.”

“You did. Twice.”

“No, you fucked me. Three times if you count the blowjob, which I always do.” Neville tilts his head. “Don’t get me wrong, I loved it. Yet here you are, frowning again. I don’t think you got everything you wanted after all.” He drags and exhales, considering John through the smoke. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those silly blokes who’s scared to switch.”

John raises his chin. “I can switch. I like switching.” He plucks the joint from Neville’s fingers and takes a deep drag. He suppresses a cough and closes his eyes. In front of his vision are little spots, rosy pink and apple green. They’re still there when he opens his eyes again. He can see them around Neville’s head, dancing and sparkling. They’re almost as pretty as he is. 

He puts a hand on Neville’s face. With one finger he traces his high cheekbones, his full lips. Neville blinks his big eyes at him, long lashes brushing his cheek. Yes—very pretty. 

Too pretty to lie to. “I haven’t done it in awhile,” John says.

Neville reaches up, fingers stroking John’s wrist. “How long is awhile?”

John has to think a moment, figuring dates. He’s never been overly math-oriented, but right now it’s especially difficult. The numbers seem to float by in the air. Finally, he catches one. “Three years, give or take.”

“Shit.” Neville takes John’s hand away from his cheek. Then John feels his own other hand, the one still clutching the joint, lifted to his lips again. Neville flicks the lighter, the flame reflecting in his silvery gaze. “I think one more hit is in order,” he says. “But just one. I want you semi- _compos mentis._ Go on, love.”

John inhales obediently. Suddenly, the room is spinning. Not a whiskey-spin but easier, more steady, like they are on a giant turntable and it’s slowly going round and round. Neville moves away to stub out the joint, and John misses his warmth. But soon he’s back again.

He nuzzles at John, hand sliding down John’s torso. Neville plucks the sheet away, he caresses John’s cock while his teeth nibble at John’s throat. Nothing vicious or brutal, just easy bites and slow strokes, but they go on and on. 

Then Neville kisses his mouth and oh, it’s gorgeous, just the right kind of kiss, deep and rough, the bristles on Neville’s cheek scraping John’s face. He could come just from this, he _will_ come in a moment, he’s starting to pant, heart speeding up, but before he gets to the brink Neville is pushing him away. He pushes him back on the bed. It feels as if John falls for an age before he finally hits pillows that are soft as clouds.

Neville kneels beside him. His pretty pale cock is fully erect and John leans up, reaching for it, but Neville slaps his hand away. He pushes him back down. “Stop that. Lie still.” 

John does, though reluctantly. “I just wanted—” He cuts off with a gasp, as he feels Neville’s lips close around his cock. He doesn’t protest further, just looks up at the shadowy ceiling. The lights are back, a living crazy quilt of glittering white, sparkling pink, and green, so much green, rich and shining. The sensations from Neville’s mouth seem to mix up with the colors, sucking heat and shimmering hues, until John doesn’t know what he’s feeling and what he’s seeing. It’s all blurs together in one amazing overload, and it feels so good he could cry. But he doesn’t cry. He comes instead, one of the best orgasms he’s ever had, dazzling and delirious. 

He’s still watching the lights dance away when he feels Neville beside him again, nuzzling at his neck. John wants to say something to him— _thank you, that was amazing, where did you learn to do that,_ the things you should say after head that has almost literally blown your mind. But when he opens his mouth, no words come out. 

“Shh.” Neville nips at his ear. “Don’t try to talk. Just turn over.”

John does. He looks out the window on his side of the bed. Through the sheer curtains he can see the moon. It’s at half-phase, it seems to smile. A wide Cheshire-cat grin, more than a little mocking. _Silly boy,_ it says. _I know what you want. Everybody knows. Who are you fooling?_

John is scowling at it when he feels Neville’s hand on the small of his back. It’s slick with lube. The hand slides down between the cleft of his cheeks. Soon it’s inside of him, preparing him. Neville is careful at first, then he goes further, fucking John with his fingers. John closes his eyes at the sensation. It’s a bit too much after his recent orgasm but he bites his lip, saying nothing. He lets Neville do what he wants—it’s his turn. Soon enough, Neville takes his hand away. “Get on your back. I want to see your eyes when I’m inside you.”

John rolls over. He looks up at Neville, who shifts so his knees straddle John’s hips. Neville has already got the condom on; it’s shining with lube. His eyes are shining as he looks at John.

“When I was young, I used to dream of this,” he says. “A man all spread out for me, waiting for me. Ready to let me inside him, deep as I wanted to go. I dreamed of other things too, but this is what I saw most. I wanted it, but I was so afraid of it.” He bites his lip. In that moment he looks very young, like the boy he once was, dreamy and conflicted. “Do you know what I mean?”

John holds a hand out to him. Neville smiles and slides up John’s body. “I’m going to fuck you,” he says. “You’re going to love it. I’ll be careful, I know it’s been a long time. Three years, John. How could you stand it? What have you been doing?”

“Waiting,” John whispers. He stares up at Neville as the room spins around them. As the lights still dance, less bright now but just as real, white and pink and green. “Just—waiting around.”

Neville kisses him softly. “Well. That’s over.” 

John raises his hips and Neville enters him. Slow, deep thrusts at first, opening him up, getting further inside. Neville groans; John knows what he’s feeling, he remembers it from just an hour ago, the sweet conquest of filling someone up. But it’s just as sweet to be filled, to let someone inside of you. John never dreamed about that when he was young—he would never let himself go there, he shifted his thoughts to safer targets—softer ones, round and female. It was a shock the first time it happened. The day Tobias Gregson tackled him after rugby, pinned him on his back and got inside him, John was surprised by how it felt. How much he liked it.

John spreads his legs further, letting Neville get into better position. His chest resting on John’s, their bellies slapping together as Neville speeds up, begins to fuck him harder. John didn’t think that he could come again after last time but once more he feels the thick heat pooling inside, his cock stiffening and his balls tightening. Maybe it’s Neville, who looks like a boy but fucks like a Spartan, all swift action and relentless, thrusting movement. Maybe it’s the liquor and the weed, time seems to be stretching like taffy, every second lasting twice as long as it should, everything twice as real and twice as good. Or maybe it’s John, who loves this. He loves everything about it, fucking and being fucked by another man. In this lovely, dizzy moment, he can face it.

He looks up, into the face of the man above him. In this moment—the most secret and honest of moments—he can see another face. Not the one of the man he went to bed with, though it has the same coloring, pale eyes and paler skin; the same hair, thick and dark and wavy; the same build, thin and wiry. But the cheekbones are sharper, the lips wider and thinner, and the eyes are not blue but grey, and slanted like a cat’s. Cruel like a cat’s, sometimes. The body is heavier, much taller. John looks up into Sherlock’s face, he feels his friend thrusting inside, deep and real and relentless. After all these months of waiting, John can finally let himself think it. 

_I know you can’t love me. But please, just touch me. I want you so fucking much._

The truth tears into him. It gets deep inside, more real than the most relentless lover. A desire like nothing he’s felt before. Longing that is like agony, made so much worse because it must remain silent. To tell the truth would be to lose him. John can’t change that; he can’t change him. In this moment, the last he has with Sherlock—the fantasy fading even as he clings to it—all John can do is look into those grey eyes and come one more time. He comes with a cry, the orgasm is so intense it’s painful, the sweetest agony he’s ever known. 

He feels someone pulling out of him, he feels a gentle touch on his face. (Not _his_ touch, so it doesn’t matter.) John looks up at the ceiling. He sees the lovely colors fading, turning dark. The world fades with them.


	17. Chapter 17

** John, 2011 (cont.) **

_Dear Prudence  
Won’t you come out to play?  
Dear Prudence  
Greet the brand new day  
The sun is up, the sky is blue  
It’s beautiful, and so are you  
Dear Prudence  
Won’t you come out to play?_

John opens his eyes. He just as quickly closes them again, as the morning sun coming through the window by the bed stabs into his brain like an icepick. He sits up slowly, trying to keep some kind of equilibrium between the pain in his head and the roil in his gut. After a few tries, the floor beneath him tilting (and not just from the warped floorboards), he gets out of bed.

He rubs his eyes, clearing his vision as much as he can, and looks around him. He didn’t take a great deal of notice of Neville’s flat last night, having other matters on his mind. It’s larger than he thought it was, the whole top floor of an old mews stable, with arched windows overlooking the street. The bed is in the first corner, separated from the rest of the room by a couple of white, backless bookshelves. The second corner has frosted double doors to the bath. The third corner contains the kitchen alcove, and the fourth corner is the vestibule and front door. In the center of it all is a lounge/office. It has the necessary sofa and telly, but most of the space is taken up by a couple of big desks, spilling over with books and papers and magazines. 

The only pictures on the tall white walls are Magritte’s apple and another oversized print, this one even more esoteric. Hung directly over the desk pushed against the far right wall, it shows the lower half of a man’s face. His nose is red and swollen and his skin is stubbled and wrinkled, the battered visage of an old bum. His lips are chapped and slyly leering: They seem to sneer at all the sins of the world. Splashed over this gruesome mug are words, written in red letters made to look like graffiti: THE TWISTED LIP. It’s the logo for Neville’s blog; John recognizes it. He’s just never seen it this big. Three meters by two meters, the picture dominates the room. 

_Dear Prudence  
Open up your eyes  
Dear Prudence  
See the sunny skies  
The wind is low, the birds will sing  
That you’re a part of everything  
Dear Prudence  
Won’t you open up your eyes?_

The music is coming from a small iPod stereo on a table by the desk. The soft psychedelic rock adds to the slightly otherworldly feel of the space, so large and strangely empty, its white walls glowing in the morning light. John blinks confusedly at the man with the twisted lip for a few moments longer, then he shakes his head to clear it. More awake now, he can take in some of the other sounds: Someone is clattering about in the kitchen. He looks towards the noise.

“Morning,” Neville calls over the counter separating the kitchen from the lounge. “Hungry?”

“No thanks,” John says, looking around for his pants. He spots all of his clothes on the floor by the bed, picks them up and starts struggling into them, despite his still-shaky balance.

“You should at least have coffee. If you’re half as hungover as I am, you need it.”

John doesn’t want coffee. What he really wants is to exit the flat as quickly and undramatically as possible. But this isn’t his first morning after, and a too-hurried escape can cause more drama, rather than avoiding it. Fully dressed now, John pastes a polite if distant smile on his face and heads towards the kitchen.

Neville is standing at the counter, eating toast and peanut butter and drinking coffee. He’s naked except for low-slung pajama bottoms. He has some truly impressive bedhead going on, his dark curls sticking out in several directions. But hungover or not, he seems bright-eyed and alert. As John approaches, Neville fills another cup from the coffee pot on the counter. 

“Milk or sugar?” he asks.

“Neither. I take it black.”

“Of course you do. Toast?” Neville indicates more slices stacked in a plate on the countertop. 

John doesn’t want it, but it’s possible that his poor roiling stomach does. He sits down on one of the kitchen stools and picks up a slice. He slathers peanut butter on it from the jar on the counter, takes a bite and washes it down with coffee. Once he’s sure it’s staying down, he takes another bite. Neville nods in a satisfied way and takes a sip from his own cup. Then:

“Hope the music didn’t wake you up. I have to do my morning blog post, and I can’t think until I’ve had some tunes. Habit going back to childhood, can’t break it now.”

“It’s fine. I should be going, anyway. I have work.” Actually, John isn’t scheduled at the Clinic until tomorrow. But Neville doesn’t have to know that.

“Right,” Neville says. “Your readers are probably wondering where you are, getting all tetchy in the forums. I know what that’s like.”

John freezes with the coffee cup halfway to his lips. Slowly, he puts it down. Then he looks at Neville, who’s smiling at him. Not a mean smile, though a bit triumphant. 

“You’re John Watson, aren’t you? I read your blog all the time. Brilliant stuff. I mean, you do have something of a problem with run-on sentences, but still: entertaining as hell. Is Sherlock really that much of an annoying dick? I’d suspect poetic license, but nobody could make that stuff up. Not even Faulkner, whose syntax you occasionally emulate.”

Neville’s tone is light, he’s still smiling. But his blue eyes are hard on John’s face. When John says nothing, Neville shrugs and continues. “You seemed familiar last night, but I couldn’t place you. This morning it came to me. It should have come sooner: How many Dr. Soldiers are out there?” He sighs. “It’s a shame, really. You’re the first bloke I’ve met in ages who doesn’t bore me to tears, and a bloody good shag besides. Of course you’re taken. What was last night about, anyway? You and Sherlock have a fight?”

John shakes his head. “We’re not—It’s not what you think.”

“Hey, I’m not judging. Going by your blog and some of the gossip I’ve heard, Sherlock Holmes redefines the term _high maintenance._ I’d need a break sometimes too, if I were shagging him.”

 _“We’re not shagging.”_ John throws down his cup. Neville jumps a bit at the clatter. 

“Calm down,” he says. “I was just—”

“No, Neville. You weren’t _just_ anything. You were fishing around. Fucking journalists.” John stands up from the stool. He leans on the counter. “Don’t you dare write about us in your blog. I mean it. I don’t want to turn a flesh-eating attorney loose on you, but I will. I do know one.”

Neville just stares at him for a moment. Then he draws himself up. He looks older, angrier. He suddenly looks his age. “Are you fucking kidding?” he snaps. “Who do you think I am, Perez Hilton? If I reported celebrity sex—which I don’t—and even if I were shameless enough to talk about my own sex life—which I’m not—it’s a non-issue. The whole bloody city knows you’re fucking Sherlock. The fact that you sometimes fuck other people—who cares? You two aren’t that famous. Not yet.”

John scrubs hands through his hair. “I am so goddamn sick of this. I am not fucking Sherlock. I have never fucked Sherlock. That’s not how it is with us. He’s not—he’s not interested, okay? Even if he were, I’m not. I don’t care what the gossips have said, I am _not—”_

John stops. He runs hands down his face. He’s shaking all over, and not just with anger. The thought of what Neville could do to him with one blog post—the damage that could be wreaked from a single blurry night—John is sick from it. He turns away from the counter, because if he looks at the toast again he’s going to puke all over the floor. 

Neville gives a mirthless bark of laughter. “You’re not _what?_ Come on, let’s see if you can say it with a straight face.”

John takes a breath. He clenches his hands. “I’m not gay. I know how this looks, but—I’m not.”

“We did it three times,” Neville says. “Five times if you count the blowjobs, which I do.”

“I was drunk.”

“You knew exactly what you were doing. I’ve had a few men, John. So have you.”

“So what? It’s something I do occasionally. It’s not who I am.”

“How very Roman of you. Next you’ll be telling me that if you’re the one penetrating, it’s not gay. But you know what? It is. Catching or pitching, you’re still a poufter. Like me.”

John just shakes his head and starts for the front door. But Neville is sharp and quick, as always. He darts around John and blocks the exit.

“Get out of my way,” John says. “Seriously. I don’t want to hurt you.”

Neville leans against the front door, crossing his arms over his chest. He tilts his head at John. He doesn’t look angry anymore, but his morning freshness is gone. He seems tired and a bit sad.

“Would you really hurt me?” he says. “I know you could, quite badly. But would you? Don’t tell me I’ve misjudged you that much.”

John unclenches his hands. He rocks back on his feet. “No,” he sighs. “I wouldn’t. But Jesus, Neville. You don’t know—”

“Sure I do. Four years ago, I was you. That’s why I’m not mad, even though I should be. You do realize you just threatened to beat me up for calling you queer?”

John looks down at his feet. His eyes are prickling madly. Some of it’s shame at the awful way he’s behaved. The rest of it’s the hangover. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.

“It’s okay. Like I said, I’ve been there.” When John stays quiet, Neville continues. “I did all kinds of stupid shit. I used to lie to myself, I was really good at it. I lied to everyone else, too—parents, friends, even my wife. Especially her. I hope someday she can forgive me. She was my best friend, and I betrayed her in every way possible. You don’t do that to someone you love, John. Even if she does forgive me, I’ll never forgive myself.”

John raises his head. “Sherlock and I aren’t involved that way. Really—I’m not lying.”

“Fine. Maybe the gossips are wrong; they sometimes are. But that doesn’t change the material point, does it? Even if you’re not sleeping with Sherlock, you do sleep with men.”

“Four men. I’ve had ten times that many women, on three different continents.”

“I was married for seven years. It doesn’t mean a damn thing.” 

John looks pointedly at the door. “Thank you for the coffee. But I do have to go.” 

Neville sighs. “Sure. Whatever you want.” He steps away, looking disappointed. 

John is in the landing when he hears his name being called again. He turns around, not quite hiding his impatience. Neville shrugs at John’s scowl and holds out a card. Printed on it is a familiar leer—the oversized Twisted Lip poster made small. The website address and Twitter account are printed underneath, along with an e-mail and phone number. On the back are more digits, hastily scribbled in black Sharpie. 

“That’s my private mobile number,” Neville says, “if you ever want to text me.”

“Neville,” John begins carefully, “I really don’t think it’s a good idea if we—”

“No, we’re not going to shag again. I realized that after you threatened to sue. It doesn’t mean we can’t be friends.” Off John’s incredulous look: “You are a stubborn, self-deluding git, John Watson. But you’re not boring.”

John rolls his eyes. “That’s gratifying.”

“It should be. Do you know how many people don’t bore me? Four. _Four_ people, five if you count my ex-wife, which I probably should, even if she hates me. You could do with another mate, too. Our other common interests aside, I can help you. You’re just entering the wild and wonderful world of internet fame. You’ve no idea what you’re in for, but I do. You could use some good advice, and not just about commas.” Neville’s face is suddenly very serious.

“I don’t understand.”

“They’re going to turn on him,” Neville says quietly. “I’ve seen it before. Sherlock hasn’t peaked yet, but he will soon. He’s brilliant and unique; the press loves fresh meat like that. But eventually even his bag of tricks will get old—brilliance has a short half-life these days. Add his charming personality into the mix, and you’ve got a bloody disaster on your hands. When Fleet Street needs a new angle on him, I guarantee it will be a sharp and pointy one.”

Neville reaches out, putting a hand on John’s face. “They’re going to rip him to pieces, love. What will that do to you? You’re not shagging him, but you _are_ involved. Aren’t you?”

John blinks furiously. His eyes are prickling again. Fucking hangover. Neville drops his hand and reaches down, carefully tucking his card into John’s trouser pocket. “Just think about it. You know how to reach me.” 

Before John can work out what to say to all this, Neville has stepped back into the flat and closed the door. After a moment of staring at the battered wood, John turns and goes slowly downstairs. His balance is improved, but it still feels like his brain is spinning. He walks outside and flags the first cab he sees. It’s not that far to Baker Street, but he knows he’ll never make it on foot. 

After the cab drops him off at the curb, John stands on the sidewalk, looking up at his building. He considers going into Speedy’s and grabbing a coffee and a bun. He could just about stomach more breakfast now. But as he looks at the windows of the flat, he sees one of the lace curtains twitch. He’s been spotted. May as well go upstairs, or Sherlock will come down and get him. 

But when John enters the flat, Sherlock seems to be occupied. He’s standing by the window in his second-best dressing gown, playing the violin. The heavy red fabric sways around his thin form as he bends his head, apparently lost in the music. No random notes these, a melody that unfolds like silk, soft and rich and shining. But also melancholy, plaintive: the voice of an angel pouring its heart out to an uncaring listener. Beautiful enough to move one to tears—desperate enough. Amazing that Sherlock can wring such sentiment from a piece of wood, when so much of the time he seems removed from all emotion himself. He shouldn’t be able to do it. 

_Perhaps that’s why he can do it,_ John thinks. _All the feelings go into the music. But if that’s so, why does he sound so sad? Hopeless—like there’s something he wants terribly and can’t get._

John shakes his head. Sometimes a song is just a song, and Sherlock didn’t write this one. It sounds familiar, though John can’t place it. He waits patiently for Sherlock to finish.

“That was lovely,” he says, once the bow stops and the strings falls silent. 

“Haydn,” Sherlock says, arranging the violin on the stand. “You need a string quartet to get the full effect, but it’s still a useful exercise. Haydn’s obsession with balance and order rivals that of Mozart. He’s superior to Mozart in some ways, less technical brilliance but more grace. They were friends, you know. Haydn was older than Mozart, he offered him lots of good advice.” 

“Did he take it?”

“Of course not. He was Mozart.” Sherlock looks up from the stand, smiling a bit. Then he blinks at John, his amusement fading. “Good Lord. What happened to you?”

John glances down at his wrinkled clothes, running a hand over his unshaven face. “Night out with Stamford. We tried a new pub—had a few too many. I slept on his couch.”

“Stamford is in Portugal.”

“He was in Portugal. He’s back now.”

Sherlock is silent a moment, his eyes fixed on John. Before the regard grows uncomfortable, however, he shrugs and says, “Well, I hope you enjoyed yourself. You missed quite a bit here. _Irene Adler,_ John. You weren’t here for the climax.” 

John’s head involuntarily jerks towards Sherlock’s bedroom. “Where is Irene?”

“Gone, like the snows of yesteryear. If the snows had a liking for sadism and red nail varnish.”

“What happened?” 

“Sit. I’ll tell you.” Sherlock indicates John’s favorite chair. He sits down in his own, arranging his dressing gown around him, the material falling in perfect dramatic folds, as always.

“Around 11 PM, Mycroft sent one of his minions around to Baker Street . . . ” Sherlock begins. 

Then he tells it, the story of Mycroft’s macabre answer to the Coventry Conundrum. A doomed flight of the dead and decomposing. Looking slightly discomfited, he tells John about Moriarty’s interference with the flight, and the problems that’s going to cause for British Intelligence in the Middle East. With more assurance, he tells how Irene Adler attempted to use all of this to her advantage, bring an entire nation to its knees not with a whip, but with a camera phone. Finally, he tells John how he destroyed her wicked schemes, finding the solution to the mystery that had been dogging them for months. The tellingly simple code to Irene’s shady history. When he tells John this last bit, with a strange, almost shy smile, John can’t help bursting out laughing. 

_“I am Sherlocked?”_ he says, once he’s squelched the giggles. “You are fucking joking.”

“I wish I were, but I’m not.” Sherlock’s face has brightened, a slight pinkish tint to his cheeks. Not quite a blush, but probably closer than he’s ever gotten in his entire stoic existence.

“We’ve got to have t-shirts made. Mugs, even. Sell them at the site. They’ll go like hotcakes. Imagine the profits. _I am Sherlocked,”_ John wipes his eyes. “Thank you, Irene.”

“I’m not that desperate for money.”

“You never are, are you? Mr. Trust Fund. Still, how much is too much, really?”

“I don’t care if I were living in the tunnels under Vauxhall. I wouldn’t profit off that woman’s insane infatuation.” Sherlock is sitting very straight in his chair. With his luxurious dressing gown and haughty, old-fashioned face, he looks like an offended medieval monarch. A sulky Plantagenet, scowling from the Bayeux Tapestry. 

“Fine, have it your way: The readers will do it themselves. Your loss is Zazzle’s gain.”

Sherlock regards him seriously. “You can’t write this one up for the blog. I’m high in Mycroft’s good graces at present, but he wouldn’t stand for that. He’d go off in some sort of rage fugue, I’d be audited by HMRC for the next 20 years, at least.”

“Since when are you afraid of Mycroft? You have an accountant, anyway. Several of ‘em.”

“Fine,” Sherlock says, steepling his hands on his knee, regal as an emperor. “I don’t want this one going public. Are we clear?”

“No, we’re not,” John says. “This is one of the most fascinating cases we’ve ever had. We can downplay the MI6 bits, but the rest of it—”

 _“Is nobody’s sodding business!”_ Sherlock snaps. 

For a moment the room is very quiet.

“Oh my God,” John says. “You slept with her.” 

He stands up, turning away with one hand pressed to his middle. He thought his hangover was easing a bit, but now it’s worse than ever, his head pounding and his guts twisting. John pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to step on the pain and nausea. “You really did it,” he whispers. “I can’t believe it.”

“I did not. Only one of us had intercourse last night. It wasn’t me.”

John spins back. “I told you, I was with—”

“Stamford is in Portugal until next weekend. You mentioned it yesterday. Even if you hadn’t told that transparent falsehood, it’s clear what you’ve been doing.” Sherlock hasn’t changed the volume or the tenor of his voice, but he’s enunciating too much, every syllable as cold and sharp as separate icicles. “You have peanut butter on your shirt. Stamford is allergic to peanuts. Even if he was hospitable enough to provide it for guests, that doesn’t explain the suck marks on your neck. I know he isn’t _that_ hospitable. I also know that while Stamford enjoys a pint, he’s quite abstemious otherwise. You’ve never come in from a night with him smelling of cannabis, and right now you absolutely reek of it. Cannabis and—” Sherlock stops. “It’s quite clear, John. I don’t know why you bother to lie to me. You’re not very good at it.”

John’s first impulse is to turn around, run down the stairs and out the front door. But that would just make Sherlock more suspicious than he already is. So he raises his chin and says, “Yeah. I spent the night with someone. What do you care?”

“I don’t,” Sherlock says. “Or if I do, it’s because I can picture several months of your new girlfriend stinking up our home with what smells like a very inferior grade of marijuana. If you must have female company, you should at least choose somebody sensible. Not some shrill bohemian who leaves hickeys like an oversexed middle schooler. She can’t be _that_ attractive.”

“She’s pretty enough,” John says. “And hickeys are better than scratches down my back.”

He regrets the words as soon as he’s said them. They’ve never discussed what happened last October. John never mentions Sherlock’s sex life at all, despite his flatmate’s rather frequent and pointed comments about John’s girlfriends. Because you can’t talk about Sherlock and sex without talking about Sherlock and coke. That wouldn’t be fair or polite, like bringing up the giant birthmark someone has on his face. Something that can’t be helped and is rather hard to look at. John wouldn’t have mentioned sex now, if he weren’t so tired and hungover.

“I’m sorry,” he says, after a tense pause. “I didn’t mean to—that was wrong.” When Sherlock says nothing, just keeps favoring him with a silvery stare, John rubs his neck and says, “I won’t be seeing her again, if it helps. She’s not really my type.”

“What is your type?” Sherlock says. “I can’t work it out. Your women seem so—random.” 

“Whoever will have me, I suppose.” John shrugs. “I’m going to bed. I’m knackered.”

Sherlock looks at him a bit longer. Then he nods. “Rest, then. I’ll wake you in a few hours, we’ll go out. There’s a new exhibit at the British Museum, _Treasures of Heaven: Saints, Relic and Devotion in Medieval Europe.”_

“Why do you want to see that? You’re about as religious as a vampire.”

“Vampires are very religious. Why do you think they’re so afraid of crosses and holy water? Terrible, the damage that misplaced devotion can cause. Just ask Irene Adler.” Sherlock smiles, not at all a nice one. “But the exhibit sounds fascinating, especially the relics. Three splinters from the Crown of Thorns, and the breast milk of the Virgin Mary. What delicious humbug.”

“Yum,” John says, and heads upstairs. He takes a very hot shower, scrubbing away last night’s adventures, and walks naked into his room. Normally, he and Sherlock are quite modest in the house, but his flatmate never comes up here. Twice, maybe, in the past 18 months. John won’t be surprised in his bedroom, even if he wished to be.

He puts his clothes on the chair by the dresser. As he does, something small and colorful falls out of his trouser pocket. He picks it up and sees that it’s Neville’s business card. John looks at it a moment, a welter of odd emotions boiling inside him—embarrassment, anxiety, confusion. A hint of lust, as he remembers Neville’s white, willing flesh. His first impulse after that is to tear the card to pieces and throw it in the waste bin. But he hesitates a moment, remembering.

 _You’ve no idea what you’re in for, but I do. You could use some good advice. Brilliance has a short half-life these days; add Sherlock’s charming personality into the mix, and you’ve got a bloody disaster. They’re going to rip him to pieces. What’s that going to do to you?_

He wants to believe that Neville is lying, or at least coloring the truth to make a better story, as clever journalists sometimes do. But he can’t believe it. He’s only known Neville St. Clair for 12 hours, but John knows the man isn’t a liar. Not anymore. 

John tucks the card away in the top drawer of his dresser. He lies on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. Maybe it’s the hangover or the fatigue. Maybe it’s Irene, or Neville. Or maybe it’s just John, naked and alone, a few exhausted tears running down his face. He finally has to face it. 

_You’re my type, Sherlock. I fucked Neville because he reminded me of you. He’s prettier than you, sluttier than you are when you’re not high, but still—you you you you you. I can’t deny it anymore, not after last night. This best mates thing is a lie. Why can’t you figure that one out?_

John wipes his cheeks. “I am Sherlocked,” he whispers. “God help me.”


	18. Chapter 18

** Sherlock, 2011 **

“When I say run— _run.”_

And Irene does. Three minutes of frantic fighting—the scimitar is not Sherlock’s first choice of weapon—but the terrorist cell which abducted Irene is small and undermanned. The one trained fighter Sherlock spots he dispatches first. After seeing their leader lose an arm to the elbow, the rest back away. It’s almost too easy then, following Irene to the nearest vehicle. She is sitting in the driver’s seat, her eyes nearly popping out of her head from fear and adrenaline. But she had the presence of mind to start the engine. They screech out in a hail of sand and shouted curses.

Driving fast, it still seems to take forever to reach the Karachi port, and the boat Sherlock has waiting there. It was some trouble to secure it, but their destination is a much shorter, safer trip by water. Irene boards the vessel willingly; she doesn’t ask where they’re going. She hasn’t communicated at all, except to sigh in assent when Sherlock took the wheel a few kilometers from the terrorists’ camp. For the rest of the drive to the port she sat huddled by the window on the passenger side, face mostly covered by the burka’s black hood, eyes wide but remote. 

Once on board, Sherlock leaves her in the boat’s cabin and heads back on deck to keep an eye on the captain and his mate. There is no obvious reason to suspect that they won’t do what they’ve been paid to do, but Sherlock is not in a trusting mood. His Urdu is rusty, so he mostly relies on watching their body language. The man are curious and vaguely hostile, as people are around a stranger who won’t stop staring. But they perform their duties ably enough. After a few hours, Sherlock feels sufficiently confident to leave them and check on Irene. He finds her on the bed, curled up like a cat. When he checks again eight hours later, she is in the same position. He watches her a moment, seeing her eyes dart beneath their lids in the way that signals deep REM sleep. He gives a satisfied nod and leaves. For once, she is not a factor he has to worry about.

The journey takes more than 24 hours, and Sherlock sleeps for none of it. Fortunate that he’s trained his body to go without rest for days at a time: He’s still more or less alert when he sees the tall yellow cranes and smoky atmosphere of the approaching port. He’s turning to go to the cabin to wake Irene when he realizes that she’s been standing behind him. She’s got some color in her face after her long rest, and she’s pinned her hair into a neat twist at the nape of her neck. She’s removed her burka, revealing a clean, if slightly wrinkled, blouse and skirt. Irene could pass for any respectable British tourist, if you didn’t look too closely at her eyes. She still looks a bit frightened, but more than that she looks fierce. Her cold gaze cuts to the men at the helm.

 _“Are they trustworthy?”_ she says in French. 

_“They’ve been well paid,”_ he answers.

French is a marvelous tongue for expressing contempt, and Irene’s voice is dripping with it when she says, _“You’ve already given them the money?”_

_“Half up front, half when we arrive safely.”_

She seems somewhat mollified at that response. _“How much?”_

He tells her the amount, and she scowls again.

 _“I thought it the safer option,”_ he says, not certain why he’s justifying himself. _“They’re less likely to talk if they feel adequately recompensed.”_

 _“It would be safer to kill them,”_ she replies. _“Cheaper, too.”_

He considers her for a moment. _“But that would be wrong.”_

She flushes a little under his gaze, and says in English, “I was joking, of course.”

He merely nods at this, reflecting that Irene’s sense of humor is very odd. As odd as Mycroft’s.

“Where are we?” she says. “The port seems familiar.”

“Mumbai.”

“Hmm, interesting. New Delhi would be the expected destination.”

“Exactly.”

Irene is silent a moment. The wind catches the tiny wisps of hair around her face, blowing them against her smooth cheek. She looks so young in the morning light. She could be a college girl on her first trip abroad. Except again for those hard, jaded eyes—she can never quite veil them. 

“I was here once with the Lord Chancellor,” she says. “We stayed at the Taj Mahal Hotel, lovely suite, nice view of the Arabian Sea. He wanted to spend the whole week shackled in the closet.”

“Did you oblige him?”

“Of course. It was fine, except he ejaculated all over my favorite pair of Christian Louboutins. You’re not getting _that_ out of suede.” She sighs. “It went on the bill, of course, but they were from a sample sale, limited edition. I haven’t been able to find them again.”

Sherlock blinks at her. “I’m—sorry?” 

Irene gives an impish smile. “You bloody well should be. I looked fucking amazing in those shoes. With you public-school types, nothing elicits an erection like a spike heel to the groin.”

“You didn’t attend a public school?” Sherlock frowns. “Your accent and carriage—”

“I only look like a hothouse flower.” Irene scowls at the burka, which is wadded up in her fist. “Small wonder that the Muslims swath their women in piles of cheap fabric. The power of a well-turned ankle—the Victorians knew all about it. They swathed their women, too.”

“But they didn’t cut their heads off.”

Irene gives a full-body jerk, and Sherlock bites his lip. “Apologies. That was uncalled for.”

“So polite,” Irene murmurs. “Even when you’re being a cruel bastard. Do they teach that at Eton? I suppose they must—my father knew how to do it, too.” 

Before he can process this new information, Irene has turned and, with a sharp movement, flung the burka overboard. “Tell me when we’re in port,” she says, turning away without looking at him again. He watches her head down to the cabin, slim and graceful as always, but something stiff in her posture. Outraged. 

_John would be able to get her back,_ Sherlock thinks. _He’s so much better at this than I am. I suppose he should be, with all the girlfriends he’s had. John would know how to talk to her._

He wishes John were here. He suddenly wishes it very much. Not to talk to Irene, but to talk to _him._ He misses their conversations. (John actually wouldn’t be much help with Irene: He hates her. He thinks she’s a liar and a manipulator; a prostie with aspirations. Sherlock isn’t sure how he himself knows this—though he can hear John say the exact words—but it’s the truth.) 

Sherlock steeples his hands for a moment, thinking. Then he shrugs and heads towards the helm, ready to discomfit the captain and his first mate once again.  


* * *

  
They don’t stay at the Taj Mahal. Even before he knew that Irene might be recognized there, he dismissed it and all of the other luxury tourist hotels as too public. The YMCA or Hare Krishna hostel would be more discreet, but Sherlock grimaced at the thought of shared toilets and stained mattresses. Also, anyone following them might use similar logic, looking low after looking high. Safer to shoot for the middle. Sherlock finally settled upon a quiet B&B that’s convenient to the airport, the kind of place a middle-class touring couple would stay. Going by the hotel’s website, it’s rather awful—themed rooms and an overpriced day spa—but that’s the point.

He’s impressed by Irene’s performance at the front desk. She’s anxious and angry, but the smile she gives the hotel clerk is so dazzling it takes him several tries to swipe Sherlock’s credit card successfully. She keeps up a steady stream of chatter with the bellhop bringing their luggage to the room. He never realizes that the bags are Louis Vuitton knock-offs hastily purchased from a street vendor, and weighted with newspapers. 

But as soon as Sherlock shoves some notes into the man’s hand and shuts the door, her smile vanishes like someone cut the strings at the corners of her mouth. Without a word she disappears into the bath. The sole sound that emerges is the cutting on of the water at varying intervals.

Sherlock looks around their room. He blinks hard at the art on the walls, then he looks again. He rubs his eyes—he actually does this—and looks one more time. Slowly, his gaze takes in the entire space. It’s basic accoutrements are rather nice: smooth, cream colored walls and a plushly carpeted floor, a large bed arranged in front of a state-of-the art entertainment system, and a bath which, though he hasn’t seen it, must be as well-appointed as the rest of the space. The colors are bright earth tones: a creamy coverlet on a bed piled with saffron and cinnabar pillows, and golden-yellow wood for the entertainment center and window shutters. Yes, it would be very nice, if one could ignore the art. Which is rather a difficult task, given its subject matter.

The room Sherlock booked was the only one left for this weekend. He took it hastily, the news of Irene’s abduction requiring swift planning and action. He only glanced at the pictures of the room, and it seemed adequate. He did not look closely at the themed artwork. The name of the room, _Vaasna,_ did not ring any bells, his Sanskrit being even shakier than his Urdu. If he had known, or if he had taken one more minute to inspect the pictures and read the captions, he would have found something else. But he didn’t, and these are the wages of carelessness.

 _Fuck,_ Sherlock thinks. The word is descriptive, both of his feelings and his surroundings. 

Though he’s already guessed, he looks at the complimentary card on the right nightstand, which helpfully explains the theme of the room: _'Vaasna' is 'Sensuality' in Sanskrit. All of creation is the balance of opposites; light and dark, positive and negative, dynamic and kinetic. These can be best typified as male and female. The principle of duality presides over all of these energies. The equilibrium of these opposing forces serves two purposes, the procreative and the creative. It is a state of pure awareness and awakening of the consciousness from ignorance, confusion, and self. It is a fusion of 'I' and 'You' into 'We,' and ultimately 'We' is transformed into 'One.’_

Sherlock won’t forget it again: _Vaasna = Shagging._ Strict to its purpose, the room has gone to great lengths to depict exactly that. A large wood panel next to the entertainment center shows a panting woman impaled on the lap of a man whose eyes are closed in ecstasy. They are flanked by two attendants—male and female—who witness the proceedings with expressions that must be described as smug. The panel, being carved in deep bas-relief, does not fail to lovingly detail the curvature of every plump buttock, the proud jut of each breast and phallus. 

The group’s fleshly self-regard is matched by the yellow lady in the painting by the window. Her smugness is more understandable: She has six hands, two of which appear to have vaginas. That makes three, given the one that is in the usual place, all of them depicted in bold red lines. Her other four hands hold penises, and that makes five. There is another penis, ten times as large as the rest, in the center of the picture. The yellow lady seems ready to test its mettle, judging by her excited expression. The penis is also excited, with a large ruddy head and glowing eyes. 

Over the bed is another picture. It’s less explicit than the others, but no less disquieting. Two figures are intertwined, male and female, though there’s no obvious genitalia. Instead the chakra points of the figures align, the root chakras in particular depicted by a brilliant blue-white circle. Around the figures are blooming flowers and tumescent moons. The symbols couldn’t be more heavy-handed: the act of conception, arranged so it’s the first thing one sees upon awakening.

There are several other examples of Indian erotic art in the room, but even if there weren’t, the first three would be more than enough. Sherlock doesn’t know whether to burst out laughing or run, not stopping until he’s at the airport. For a moment he seriously considers the latter, but that would be cowardly, a sour end to his adventures abroad. Laughing would be the best option, but he has no idea if Irene will think this is funny. Treating it as a joke might make matters worse. 

Looking for a distraction from his current conundrum, Sherlock turns on his phone, scrolling for messages. His heart lifts a little at the third.

**See any cobras yet? –J**

He told John that he was going to India for a week to study venomous snakes. Given Irene’s past behaviors, this wasn’t completely a lie. It’s either a testament to John’s stoicism, or to Sherlock’s exceptionally varied interests, that John shrugged at the news.

Sherlock’s fingers fly over the screen.

**Reached Mumbai. The hotel is ghastly. Cobras would be a blessing by comparison. –S**

Within seconds, the answer comes back.

**? –J**

**They booked me in the honeymoon suite. Penises on the walls, John. Dozens of them. –S**

**Pics or it didn’t happen. –J**

Sherlock snaps a quick shot of the yellow lady and sends it on. His phone beeps almost at once.

**Fucking hell. How will you sleep? –J**

**I won’t. —S**

**I’d tell you to have a wank, but . . . –J**

**Flaccid does not begin to describe my feelings. –S**

**Maybe Miss Shiva could lend a hand? One of the ones without a cock? –J**

**Shiva was a man. Maybe Kali’s somewhere about. –S**

**Who? –J**

**Goddess of Death. Drinks blood. Wears skulls. –S**

**Any port in a storm, mate. –J**

**Are we speaking from personal experience? –S**

**I’m very popular. Had two girlfriends since you’ve been away. –J**

**Imaginary women don’t count. –S**

**Oh. Just the one, then. –J**

**Describe. –S**

**Slut. You’re going to get crabs again. Hope you had a bloody good time. –JW**

**? –S**

**I could get into the Shadow Lounge. I clean up nice. –JW**

**??? –S**

**Sorry. Crossed messages. –J**

**Are you texting somebody else? –S**

**I told you I was popular. –J**

Irene enters, wearing a white hotel dressing gown and rubbing a towel in her hair. “There are vaginas all over the bath,” she says. “Even for a lesbian, it’s disturbing. I am disturbed.”

**Oh look there’s Kali. Bye. –S**

“Give John a kiss for me,” Irene says.

Sherlock puts the phone on the nightstand. “I didn’t realize you were on such intimate terms.”

Irene smirks. She seems to have regained her temper along with her hygiene. “John hates my guts, actually. What an angry little hobbit he is! And _rude._ I’d spank his bottom for it, but he couldn’t afford me.”

Sherlock chokes a bit at that particular image, but manages to turn it into a cough. “I doubt John has ever found it necessary to pay for his pleasures. He just informed me that he has yet another new girlfriend. That makes seven since he moved to Baker Street.” 

“Let me guess. A bouquet of English Roses in sensible shoes?” 

“Not all of them. He doesn’t have a type. His women are very random.” 

“I bet they are,” Irene says with a smirk. “Desperately so.” 

“What?” 

“Never mind.” She waves a careless hand. “To turn our attention to more interesting subjects, what’s the plan? The B &B is charming in a raunchy sort of way, but I assume this isn’t where the journey ends.” 

“We leave tomorrow at noon,” he says. “I booked seats on a flight to Dubai; you can get anywhere from there. I’m going back to London, of course.” 

“Of course.” Irene is silent a moment, finger-combing her hair in a pensive fashion. “What do we do for the next 24 hours? Eat room service and watch telly?” 

“It’s preferable to being shackled in a closet.” 

She tilts her head at him. “How would you know?” 

“I can imagine.” Sherlock looks towards the bath. “If you’re through, I’m going to shower.” 

“Remember: _vaginas._ You’ve been warned.” As he exits, she reaches for the TV remote. 

He strips and steps into the shower, trying to avoid looking at the stone carving hung over it, which does indeed depict five women in various stages of exposed arousal. It’s balanced by another near the sinks, which shows five men in similar states. All of this aggressive sensuality has the opposite effect: Sherlock couldn’t masturbate in this shower if his life depended on it. 

Instead, he scrubs away the grit of Pakistan with grim thoroughness, trying not to consider the awkwardness which awaits outside. He focuses on other matters, the most pressing of which is, who the hell was John texting? Sherlock knows the Shadow Lounge, though he hasn’t been there in some time. One of the best gay clubs in Soho, though they do let plenty of women in, if they are sufficiently fabulous. Who could John know that would be having a bloody good time there? A slutty person with crabs. A fabulous slut John knows well enough to chide about it. 

The question makes Sherlock peevish. It sets off strange lights in his synapses. They lead him into a forgotten corner of his memory palace, hidden in the giant wing that has a sign carved in stone over the entranceway: JOHN WATSON. In this dark corner of what is usually a happy part of Sherlock’s palace, Haydn plays. A heavy scent is in the air, sour and green. Cannabis. Under that is yet another scent, faint but discernible. Perfume, spicy and unfamiliar. Sherlock knows perfumes; there is a room devoted to them in the palace. But he doesn’t know this one. 

It angers him to no end, not knowing. He was angry that day, too: John coming in unshaven and sated, peanut butter on his shirt and teeth marks on his neck. Sherlock was so angry at the sight, and he doesn’t know why. Just the sordid remnants of one more of John’s girlfriends. Seven of them, since John moved in 18 months ago. In a back hall of John’s wing in the memory palace, Sherlock has hung their portraits. Hasty sketches, all of them thick with dust. Sherlock knows he’ll probably never have to look at them again. But this woman—there isn’t a sketch of her, just a silhouette. She wasn’t even a proper girlfriend, John never saw her again, he _promised._ There’s no reason to believe those flirty texts were meant for her. But Sherlock does believe it. 

Sherlock is jerked back from his journey by a thumping on the door. “Everything okay?” Irene says. “You’ve been in there an hour.” 

“Fine.” Sherlock turns off the water. He steps out, drying himself on the nubbly towel. He shoves his dirty clothes into the cleaner’s bag (Irene’s are already in there) and grabs the other hotel dressing gown. He emerges from the bath and hangs the cleaner bag on the outside of the hotel room’s door, where its contents should be picked up, washed, and returned by tomorrow. 

Feeling strangely vulnerable, though the dressing gown is thick and all-encompassing, he makes his way back into the main area of the room. Irene is sitting on the bed again. She has turned off the telly and contented herself with a book. It’s one she picked up when they bought the luggage, a battered paperback copy of Jane Austen’s _Pride and Prejudice._

“If you’re tired, you can have the bed,” Sherlock says. 

“I slept for hours on the boat. You didn’t, did you? You must be knackered.” 

“The sofa is fine.” He nods at the elegant piece of furniture under the window. 

“The sofa is too short for you by half a foot.” Irene pats the bed. “Plenty of room for all. Aunt Jane and I won’t make any noise, we promise.” When Sherlock hesitates: “Good Lord, man. Your virtue is quite safe, despite the décor. I’m still entirely too freaked out to seduce anybody. In fact, I think I’m swearing off men again. When I get home—and I do have one, a lovely pink villa in Budva—I’m finding a plump Slavic girl and settling down.” 

Suitably chastised, Sherlock lies down on the bed, leaving a careful distance between himself and Irene. She glances at the vast wasteland of coverlet, rolls her eyes, and picks up _Pride and Prejudice._ The room is quiet and Sherlock is tired, but he does not sleep. He tries to enter his memory palace again, but whenever he does he just ends up in the same dark corner, smelling cannabis and strange perfume, looking at that maddening silhouette. He leaves the palace and returns to Mumbai. He tries to simply _be,_ the way the yoga instructor at Promises once taught him. To let go of the overwhelming world and focus on his breathing. He does not look at the red varnish on Irene’s toes. He does not smell the lotion on her skin. He does not feel the weight of her on the mattress. Sherlock looks up at the glowing chakras on the ceiling, and he breathes. 

It works for awhile, until Irene suddenly pitches the book across the room. It hits the center of the picture by the window with a loud thump, sending the yellow lady all askew. 

“I can’t,” she says. “I’ve tried three bloody novels, but I do not see the appeal of Jane Austen.” 

Sherlock sits up. “You prefer the Brontes. Emily in particular.” 

Irene’s brow wrinkles. “Yes. _Wuthering Heights_ is lovely. _Jane Eyre_ is all right too, despite the religious guff. How did you know that?” 

“It’s an easy assumption. They are polar opposites. Charlotte Bronte didn’t like Austen either, if that’s any consolation. ‘The passions are perfectly unknown to her,’ she wrote her editor once. ‘I should hardly like to live with her ladies and gentlemen, in their elegant but confined houses.’ 

“Exactly. There’s no feeling in Austen.” 

“You’re wrong. Austen’s characters feel. Quite deeply.” 

“All her heroines do is drink tea, write letters and go for walks—where’s the passion in that?” 

“Passion is more than heated declarations on windswept moors. Elegance and confinement can cover a multitude of earthly desires. Austen is subtle—unlike the Brontes—but it’s all there if you pay attention. The agony of unrequited love, the despair of separation, the fearful promise of passion fulfilled: Austen knows these things. She can show a character’s soul in six lines of dialogue. Such keen insight, such brilliant imagination! Thank God she never married. What a waste it would have been. She _knew,_ you see: Love is the great devourer. It eats genius.” 

Irene is silent a long time. She pulls her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them. She rests her head on her knees. When she speaks, it’s softly. 

“You’re not a virgin, are you?” 

Sherlock blinks at her. “What?” 

“I thought you were. But you’re not. Jim Moriarty has got his facts wrong.” 

Sherlock doubts that. Moriarty knows about the cocaine addiction—how else could Jefferson Hope have known? If he knows about the drugs, he knows about the orgies; it’s impossible to separate the two. Moriarty also knows about Sherlock’s celibacy in his sober periods. And that his immaculate air is a sham, sustained only with effort. He is most certainly not a virgin: The nickname is ironic, and insightful, and vicious. Classic Moriarty. 

“No,” Sherlock finally tells her. “That ship sailed long ago.” 

“Man or woman?” 

“Would you believe me if I said it was both?” 

Her eyes widen. “A threesome?” 

“Technically. Though later on it was a foursome. She had a twin sister.” 

Irene shakes her head. “I don’t believe that. It would make a good movie, though. A dirty one.” 

_It was a movie,_ Sherlock thinks. _With a very talented director._ Probably the most disturbing thing about the whole affair, the knowledge that Ford was behind everything. He sat by his pool and worked it out, from actors to sets to lighting. Getting his baby brother laid was a pet project for him, he designed it to the last detail. When things didn’t go quite as planned, he improvised beautifully, as any master storyteller would. He envisioned everything in high definition. His brother’s debauchment, he pictured it. All of it. 

It occurs to Sherlock—not for the first time—that his eldest brother is a very strange person. The strangest of the three, for all Mycroft’s secrets, all of Sherlock’s obsessions and addictions. A dangerous person to know, even when you stay on his good side. Ford would enjoy Irene. Until she crossed him, which she inevitably would. Then it would end badly. But not for him. 

Sherlock rests his head against the padded headboard. He twists his neck to look at her. “You should avoid Moriarty,” he says. “It must be tempting to let him know you’re alive—he owes you a great deal of money. No doubt you also enjoy him on a personal level. He plays such interesting games, and I know you like those. But you can’t win.” 

“Why is that?” 

“He’s a psychopath. The truest I’ve ever encountered. He doesn’t want money. He doesn’t want notoriety, not really. All he wants is to watch the world burn. He’ll burn you if he can. And warm his hands at the blaze.” 

Irene reaches out. She puts her hand on his wrist. Her fingernails are free of color for once, but it’s still a lovely hand. There’s real strength in it. “I’ll be okay. Even if I’m not, you’ll help me. You will, won’t you? Just like you did yesterday.” 

Sherlock says nothing. 

“You risked your life for me,” Irene says. “After everything I did. Why?” 

“You can’t help yourself,” Sherlock says, after a moment. “I knew the game was an obsession with you. Until today, I didn’t know why. You really can’t stop. Not after what he did to you.” 

Irene looks puzzled. “Moriarty hasn’t done anything to me. Not yet, anyway.” 

“Not Moriarty. Your father.” When she just stares at him: “You’re a sex worker, Irene. A highly skilled and well-paid one, but nonetheless. Women with happy childhoods don’t go into that line of work. But you are skilled, and it’s a particular kind of skill. You hurt powerful and wealthy men. You bind them, you berate them, you discipline them. It’s not just a job for you, is it? You enjoy it at a personal level, their attention and their pain. You sought _my_ attention for months, quite desperately. You fetishized my supposed virginity; you wanted to be the first. You wanted to be special in my eyes, but that wasn’t enough. You had to hurt me. Why?” 

Irene has turned away from him, her face frozen, head bent. He can tell by the tension in her shoulders that he’s upsetting her, but he can’t stop. He never can, once he’s gotten started. 

“It’s a pattern that goes very far back. You wanted your father’s attention, but you could never have it. So you tried to hurt him, and you failed. But you couldn’t stop. You have sought him in a thousand different guises, and you keep trying to hurt him. But you only succeed in hurting yourself. These scandals you’ve been embroiled in, all the chaos that you’ve caused, how has it profited you? You’re a dead woman, a fugitive. Daddy still doesn’t care.” 

He sees the muscles in Irene’s neck work as she swallows hard. She blinks a few times, though her eyes remain red and wet. Then she raises her chin and looks at him. 

“Say it’s true,” she rasps. “Everything you say. That doesn’t answer my question, Sherlock. Why do you give a damn? Is it pity? Is that it?” 

“Perhaps. Of a kind.” 

“Bastard.” Irene is really crying now. “I _would_ like to hurt you. I’d like to break your heart.” 

“You assume I have a heart to break,” he says gently. 

“You do,” she says, swiping at her cheeks. “I mean, you did. But you don’t have it now. You gave it away. He has it gripped tight in that sturdy little fist of his. He won’t give it up, and you won’t give him up, will you? The two of you will sit in those two rotten old chairs in your grotty old flat forever. You’ll keep texting each other until your fingers fall off, and you’ll never say the one thing you really want to say. No wonder you like Jane Austen! It’s fucking pathetic. You and John are pathetic.” 

“Stop talking about John,” Sherlock says. “He has nothing to do with this.” 

“He has everything to do with it. As you so kindly pointed out, I’m a professional. I know what men like, and you like him. You’re waiting around like Darcy in _Pride and Prejudice,_ praying for him to work it out. But _he’s_ not waiting. If this is a game you two are playing, he’s winning, isn’t he? All those random girlfriends of his. Every time he walks into Baker Street reeking of beer and pussy, it just kills you. Christ!” She rakes her hair back from her face. “I shouldn’t have gone to Jim Moriarty for advice on how to take you down. I should have consulted John Watson. The Great Detective, felled by a hobbit in an ugly jumper. The irony is too delicious.” 

Irene kneels on the bed, looking into up his face. “I’d like to break your heart,” she whispers. “But it’s already broken.” 

Sherlock can’t hit her. Thirty-one years of social conditioning make that impossible. He can’t even yell at her—he has no words. He kisses her instead. A hard, searing kiss, nothing elegant or refined about it. Aunt Jane would not approve. Emily and Charlotte certainly would. 

Irene finally breaks the kiss, though she doesn’t move back. When she speaks, he feels her breath on his cheek. “Shagging me won’t change how you feel about him.” 

“You presume too much,” Sherlock says. “It was just a kiss.” 

“Uh-huh.” Irene’s hand snakes down. He gasps as she grasps his cock in her strong little fist. An expert tug or two, and his erection goes from half-hearted to very resolute, indeed. 

“I do this for a living,” she murmurs in his ear. “You’re not the first confused man I’ve seen.” 

Sherlock catches her by the chin. He kisses her again, biting at her lower lip. She gives a happy squeak and redoubles her grip on him. “And you’re not the first professional I’ve seen.” 

Irene pulls away a little, laughing. Her eyes are still red, but she doesn’t seem angry anymore. “Excellent. Then you know what comes next.” 

She pushes him back on the pillows. At first, Sherlock considers resistance. But the impulse is gone almost as soon as it’s formed. There comes a time when even the most blind denial has to pry one eye open. He can’t look the other way anymore, and pretend he didn’t know this was a possibility when he left London. This is a destination he and Irene have been traveling to since their first meeting. (The drugging and beating did nothing to dull his interest. On the contrary, they sharpened it.) Sherlock wants this for reasons that have nothing to do with his best friend. His feelings for John and his feelings for Irene are related, but they are not the same. Tomatoes and deadly nightshade are also related, but one nourishes you and the other stops your heart. 

Sherlock looks up at her. “This _isn’t_ about John,” he says. 

“Whatever,” Irene says, and yanks his robe fully open. She takes him in with one practiced glance. “Very nice. I usually have to think about something else at this point—something to take my mind off what I’m really doing— _who._ All those grey, flabby old men, faugh!” She runs a slow hand up Sherlock’s body. “But you, lovey, have my full attention.” She touches his cheek, something sweet in the gesture. “You’re almost too pretty. You should have been a girl.” 

“I was supposed to be.” 

“Shame how things work out, isn’t it? In a parallel world, what a happy Sapphic couple we are.” 

Sapphic, perhaps. Happy, Sherlock sincerely doubts. He opens his mouth to say so, but at this moment Irene divests herself of her robe. Her body is nothing he hasn’t seen at length, but it still makes his breath catch and his pulse race. He knows that this image of her will remain with him forever, a portrait done in sensuous oils, hung in a secret passage of his memory palace. A dark-haired, pale-eyed beauty gazing down at him with a knowing smile. As naked and unashamed as the day they first met, her small and beautiful breasts exposed, her bare and glistening sex open as she straddles him with long, white, slender thighs. An inscription is under her furtive portrait, obscurely botanical: _Deadly Nightshade._ The Latin name would, perhaps, be more appropriate. _Atropa Belladonna,_ the beautiful lady who bursts hearts. 

Irene hovers over him. Her fingers glide along his neck, tracing under his jaw. “Elevated pulse,” she says. “Dilated pupils. We remember those signs, don’t we? You do want me.” 

“Hence the erection.” 

“Yes, there is that, isn’t there?” Irene’s smooth, expert touch attends to the organ in question until Sherlock is gasping again, small bright lights at the corners of his vision. Then suddenly she stops, bending close. She places a lingering kiss on his mouth. She whispers in his ear: “I’m glad you’re not a girl. I want your big lovely cock inside of me.” 

“Happy—to oblige,” he pants. Then he looks at the nightstand. “Condoms—” 

“No luck. I looked while you were in the shower. Not much of a honeymoon suite, huh?” 

He takes a breath, tries to think. “I could get dressed. There’s a chemist’s down the street.” 

Irene nods. “You could do that.” She shifts her hips a little. He feels her slick, wet heat slide against his straining member, and it’s everything he can do not to plunge into her immediately. 

“You _could_ do that,” she repeats, eyes sparkling wickedly. “Or you could fuck me raw.” 

“That would be foolish,” he says. “Dangerous.” 

“But fun.” She slides against him again, and he can’t help moaning. 

He grabs her by the hips, forcibly stilling her. “Why do you want this so badly?” 

Irene has stopped smirking. Her face is very serious. “Fifteen minutes to get dressed and go to the chemist’s. Fifteen more minutes to find what you want and come back. A hundred chances to change your mind. After what I went through to be here with you, I can’t let that happen.” 

Her eyes have gone red again, lips trembling. “They were going to cut my head off.” 

“I know,” Sherlock says softly. “I’m sorry.” 

“I almost died. _I saw it._ The sword going through my neck. Everything going black. Those bastards spitting on my headless corpse, burying me in a shallow grave. Or worse, not burying me at all. Leaving me in the rubbish pit. Another dead whore, dumped and forgotten.” 

Sherlock’s hands have tightened on her thighs. “You’re not a whore.” 

“I am,” Irene says. “Well-paid and highly skilled, but still. I’m also gay. But not with you. You do something to me. You cost me millions of pounds, and I hardly regret it. When I think about that night, what I regret is the way you looked at me. Like I didn’t mean anything to you.” 

Sherlock shakes his head slowly. He doesn’t have to say it, she must know the truth. _I came here for you. I’ve dreamed of you, of us. You do something to me. You burst my heart in my chest, and I still want you._

“I’ve never been with a man when I wasn’t being paid,” Irene says. “I’ve never had a man inside me without a condom and a diaphragm and pills besides. I’ve never _felt_ a man, do you understand? It’s not virginity, but it’s something, isn’t it? It’s something.” 

“Yes,” Sherlock says, and thrusts into her. 

Irene gives a little shudder at the sudden invasion. Then she makes a sound deep in her throat. A keening, desperate noise that would have him as hard as a rock if he weren’t already there. He thrusts into her again. This isn’t the first time he’s felt a woman raw. He’s been very careless in the past. But it is the first time he’s felt a woman when his brain wasn’t convulsing on coke. It’s the first time he’s felt one that he cared something about. Not love exactly, but a real passion. A hunger that turns you inside out. You’d take any chance to satisfy it. 

Once you do, it feels so good. She feels amazing, all tight, slippery heat. She fits around his cock like she was made for him—she was, in a parallel world. Fucking her raw is a revelation. He could come after the third thrust but he makes himself keep going. Irene has to remember this fondly, her first time with a man. _The_ Man—he wants her to always think of him that way. 

So he doesn’t come, instead he lets her set the pace, riding him like a skilled equestrienne with her favorite mount. He lets her do as she likes and he does the same, tasting the sweet softness of her breasts, exploring the bewitching curves of her hips, grasping the tight, flexing globes of her buttocks. Until he sees she’s growing tired, a bit frustrated. He reaches between her glistening thighs. He finds that swollen, needy little button and presses it, he tortures and teases it, until her whole body seems to tighten and she’s crying out, a sound that’s like pain but more delighted, fulfilled. Then, and only then, does he let himself climax. He comes deep inside of her, he doesn’t for a second consider pulling out. He wants to be inside her, whatever happens. It’s foolish and dangerous, like everything about them. So much fun, these games they play. 

In a moment Irene shifts, slipping away from him, and he regrets the loss. She cuddles up beside him, her pointed little chin digging into his shoulder. “No,” she sighs. “Definitely not a virgin.” 

“Sorry.” 

“It’s fine.” She gives him her three-cornered cat’s smile. “You have approximately 18 hours to show me everything you’ve learned.” She bites his throat in a friendly way. “Trust me, darling: There will be a test at the end.” 


	19. Chapter 19

** Sherlock, 2011 (cont.) **

Some hours later, Sherlock awakes from a sated doze to the sound of his phone. He would ignore it—he’s ignored all the other messages—but it’s the special song. The first notes of “Jerusalem”: John’s song.

Irene mutters something in her sleep and turns on her side. He runs a fond hand over her hip, sits up, and grabs the phone from the nightstand. Focusing his vision with some difficulty in the dim light, he looks at the message. 

**Where are you? All hell’s broke loose here. –J**

Sherlock scrolls back and sees four texts from Lestrade and two from Mycroft. He doesn’t look at them—John will fill him in with vehemence. He texts back quickly.

**Communing with the snakes. Fascinating creatures. Not so lethal with proper handling. –S**

**Fuck the snakes. Beryl Coronet is missing. –J**

**Who? –S**

**You don’t watch enough crap telly. Bottle blonde. Twice divorced. Reality show darling. –J**

**I care because? –S**

**Beryl Coronet is a stage name. Real name Jane Godwin. –J**

Sherlock blinks quickly, flicking through an elaborate mahogany file cabinet in the study of his memory palace (it looks a great deal like Siger’s study, but larger and with no piano). When he finds the appropriate file, his heart thrills a bit.

**Jane Godwin, daughter of James Godwin, Lord Hereford, Under-Secretary of Defense.—S**

**Yep. Mycroft is going mental. Lestrade too. Why haven’t you checked your messages?—J**

**I’m checking now. What happened? –S**

**Complicated. £5 million gone too, several shady boyfriends, all they’ve got of her is 3 blood-stained fingernails on the windowsill of her room. Can’t text everything. Check web.—J**

Sherlock is bringing up the _Times_ website when John’s song chimes again.

**Fuck web. Come home. –J**

**Is that a personal request? –S**

**Yes. Bored stiff. Need a case. This really does look promising. —J**

Sherlock hesitates before sending a reply to this. Finally, he shrugs and does it. 

**But you’re so popular. New girlfriend and all. –S**

**That’s just a bit of fun. This is work.—J**

_What about Miss Shadow? How much fun is she?_ Sherlock would love to text, but restrains himself. Before he can think of a suitably neutral reply, the phone chimes.

**Come home come home come home will beg if you like –J**

_I bet you beg very prettily,_ Sherlock thinks. Then he looks over at the sleeping woman next to him, and sighs. How did his life become so complicated? All he wants is his work. Perhaps, occasionally, to enjoy a nice plate of chicken feet. He didn’t ask for these distractions to enter his life. All of these distracting people, pulling him in opposite directions.

The phone chimes again. John has forwarded flight information, a non-stop leaving in three hours. If he goes to the airport now he could make it, touching down in London just before noon, a cab dropping him at Baker Street in time for a late lunch at Speedy’s.

All of a sudden he wants that terribly. As much as he wants not to go, to stay in this warm bed in this dark room with Irene. He is pulled in two, half of him staying here and half of him hustling into Speedy’s, searching the tiny space for John’s face and finding it, seeing his best friend smile at him over a BLT. That ridiculously charming smile, John has no right to such an expression—it doesn’t go with the ugly jumpers and general air of tweedy responsibility. A smile that warms you to your toes, wholesome heat but with a hint of wickedness about it. A man like that could beg so prettily, he could ask for all sorts of things and you’d be glad to give them to him—

 _Focus, Holmes._ He looks at the phone. Though it’s silent, he can hear “Jerusalem” in his head. 

_Bring me my bow of burning gold!  
Bring me my arrows of desire!  
Bring me my spear! O clouds, unfold  
Bring me my chariot of fire!_

_I will not cease from mental fight,  
Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand,  
Till we have built Jerusalem  
In England's green and pleasant land._

There’s no choice, really. He texts quickly and deliberately. **Be there at 2. —S**

He can’t stay in this den of iniquity in India when there is a fresh case waiting for him at home. This isn’t about John. This is about work. 

The phone chimes one more time, but Sherlock doesn’t look at it. John is pleased, of course. He’s so predictable—except when he isn’t. 

Sherlock gets out of bed. He doesn’t look at Irene again until he’s emerging from the bath a quarter of an hour later, buttoning his shirt. The hotel has been quite impressive with service—his and Irene’s clothes have already been returned, washed and pressed. He didn’t discover them until just now. Perhaps the porter knocked on the door, but they were too occupied to hear.

He goes to the wardrobe and takes out a black messenger bag, the only piece of real luggage he brought along. Fastening his watch, he approaches the bed. It’s tempting to leave the envelope and a note, but that would be cowardly. What they did was a mistake, but he won’t treat it as such. Sherlock wasn’t seduced; he wanted this. He cut off a man’s arm to have it.

He turns on the bedside lamp. He puts a hand on her shoulder. Irene sleeps like a soldier: fast asleep, then two seconds later completely alert. He wonders where she learned to rest like that.

She takes in his clothes and bag with a glance. “Is someone coming for us?” There’s an oddly hopeful note in her voice. Perhaps because she realizes what the alternative must be.

“I have to go,” he says. “Urgent business. I’m taking an earlier flight. It leaves at 6 AM.”

She sits up, running hands through her tousled hair. “I see.”

Sherlock reaches in the pocket of his messenger bag and takes out a large envelope. He puts it on the bed beside her. “I didn’t think we would need these until later, but you should have yours now. The confirmation number for the ticket to Dubai is in there. Also, a passport and other ID. Excellent fakes—I can say with assurance that they won’t be spotted. I know you have your own false identity, but you’ll need these to get to Budva or wherever you keep your documents. If it’s any reassurance, I don’t think you’ll be molested further. I have—certain contacts. They are going to spread the word that you were beheaded in Pakistan.” 

“Thanks.” 

Irene up-ends the envelope, spilling its contents. She picks up the passport and glances inside. She raises an eyebrow at him. “Harriet Houseman?”

“The name was chosen at random.”

“I doubt that. Very little about you fits that description.” Irene opens another, smaller envelope that was inside the larger one. Her expression freezes as she sees the bills inside.

“Ten thousand. It should be sufficient to get you wherever you wish to go.”

“My goodness,” she says softly. “That’s more than twice what I usually charge for a night. You’re too generous.”

He sighs. “Irene—”

 _“What?”_ she snaps, glaring at him. “Don’t pretend this is something else. Do you know how guilty you look right now? I know that expression, Sherlock. It’s the look a man gets when his wife phones, and he has to forget all this,” –she gestures at the rumpled sheets— “put on his tie and cufflinks and go back to his real life.”

“I’m not wearing cufflinks. I don’t have a wife.”

Irene gives a mirthless laugh. “I’m not even going to bother ridiculing that.”

“This isn’t about John,” Sherlock says. “I have a case. Even if I didn’t—you don’t understand how it is with us. Not everything is about sex.”

“I wouldn’t care if you were fucking him,” Irene says. “I know better than you do how little that can mean. But the way you look when you say his name—especially now, when you’re missing him terribly—” Her voice shakes and she stops. She draws her knees up to her chest. It strikes him then, how small she is. There’s really nothing to her, it wouldn’t be hard at all to break her in half. He doesn’t want to do that. This whole journey was about preventing exactly that.

“You know it wouldn’t work,” he says quietly. “Games are fun, but you can’t build a whole life on them. I’d be cold comfort to live with, anyway. There’s also the cogent fact that you’re gay.” 

“So are you,” she replies. “You can shag women, you can even enjoy it. But that’s not where your heart is. John Watson is just the same. No wonder you mesh so well.”

 _John is straight,_ Sherlock thinks. _Very straight, in a Spartan sort of way. If he weren’t, I would know it by now. Eighteen months, Irene. Do you really think I haven’t paid attention?_

But he doesn’t say it. He’s tired of saying it, to himself and to other people. It doesn’t change the reality of his relationship with Irene. If there were nobody waiting for him at Baker Street, he’d still be leaving her. A few hours later perhaps, but the break would still come. The heat between them is not healthy, it couldn’t nourish either of them. They’re alike in all the wrong ways; they’d never mesh well. Narcissism is a piquant basis for a dirty weekend, but not for day-to-day comfort. You need your complement to achieve that, not your mirror image. 

Eighteen months ago, Sherlock wouldn’t have known this. But when you’ve had real comfort for that long, you learn to recognize its absence. His relationship with John is not perfect—the girlfriends _are_ irritating—but it’s better than anything he’s known before. Far better than this, even when you consider all the orgasms. 

Sherlock doesn’t say as much to Irene. It would be cruel, and she’s been damaged enough by men’s cruelty—their carelessness. Instead, he kneels next to the bed. He puts his hand on her face and kisses her. She resists a bit at first, then melts into it. It’s different than any kiss he’s given her before. There is very little heat to it, and a great deal of comfort. A brother’s kiss. When it ends, he looks into her grey eyes.

“Harriet would have been my name,” he says. “If I’d been a girl.”

Irene wipes away the tears trickling down her face. “My girl. In a parallel world.”

Sherlock nods, though he still doesn’t believe it. In a parallel world, Irene is his sister. The one he would have known if he’d been graced with a sibling close in age, as Sherrinford and Mycroft were. His own dear twin, Irish or otherwise: dark-haired, pale-eyed, and slender. Complicated and brilliant, melodramatic and manipulative. You can’t build a life on that kind of narcissistic attraction. But oh, how it can tempt you! He is half-shattered at the thought of leaving her. Which is why he has to go, before this incestuous infatuation ruins them both.

“Goodbye, Irene,” he says, standing up.

“Harriet,” she says. “But it really doesn’t matter. Neither is my real name.”

“What is it?” he says. “Will you tell me?”

She shakes her head slowly. “That’s one secret I’m keeping. And it doesn’t matter, does it? Men call me what they want to call me. In the end, I’m just me. Just a woman.”

 _“The_ Woman,” Sherlock says softly.

She smiles up at him. It’s not her usual one, neither sharp nor scornful nor secretive. A real smile, gentle and a little desperate. The smile of the girl she must have been—whatever her name was. Then she seems to gather herself, and the lovely, mocking mask is back in place.

“Goodbye, Sherlock. Give John a kiss for me. Spank his bottom—you know he deserves it.” Irene rises from the bed and, without a backwards glance, strides into the bath. She leaves him the same way she met him, magnificently naked and totally unashamed. If she had been Harriet Holmes, she couldn’t have made a more brilliant and dramatic exit.

If Sherlock were the kind to give salutes, he would. Instead he looks after her a moment, smiling. He adjusts his messenger bag and walks to the door.  


* * *

  
John is sitting at their favorite table, tucked away in the back between the two mirrors. He has, as predicted, a BLT sitting in front of him. There is another plate across from him, containing a wrap in wax paper—Sherlock’s lunch. John hasn’t been waiting long. His sandwich only has one bite taken out of it, and he hasn’t stolen any of Sherlock’s crisps, as he is wont to do.

When Sherlock came in the cafe door, John lifted his head and smiled. It amazes as it always does, the change this renders in John’s features. The change it renders in Sherlock himself, the fatigue of a ten-hour flight—and all that came before it—falling away from him. If he were the kind to give hugs, Sherlock would hug John right now. But he isn’t, so he just sits.

“2:09,” John says. “Not bad.”

“The flight was late leaving Mumbai,” Sherlock says. “Ground crew—they didn’t stock enough lemon-scented napkins or some such nonsense. Delays for weather or maintenance are factored into my estimations, but I always forget to make allowances for gross stupidity.”

“Yes, people are very stupid,” John says soothingly. “Eat your lunch.”

Sherlock regards the wrap in front of him with real appetite. Chicken, bacon, and sharp English cheddar, garnished with cucumbers, lettuce, red peppers, red onions, and chili sauce—delicious. (He orders it so often that the owner of Speedy’s, aware of Sherlock’s increasing notoriety, has threatened to name it after him. Sherlock _will_ buy the building and evict if this comes to pass.)

For a few minutes they are silent, enjoying their respective meals. Finally, John wipes his mouth with a napkin, takes a swallow of Coke, and says, “So. How was India?”

“Hot.”

“Well. That’s descriptive. You know, I’ve always wanted to go. I would have, but Victoria is out on maternity leave again. I chipped in on the mobile Sarah gave her for the office baby shower, but what I really should have gotten her is an extra-large box of condoms. Possibly with helpful instructions.” John chews pensively on his pickle spear. “Also, you didn’t ask me to go.”

“It didn’t seem like your kind of trip.” 

“Did you have fun at least? Catch lots of cobras?”

“Just one.”

“You look knackered,” John says, peering at him in a professional way. “I suppose you didn’t get much sleep. All those penises on the walls.”

“It wasn’t an atmosphere conducive to rest.” Sherlock pauses. “Going by the circles under your eyes, it looks like your own sleep was equally interrupted.”

John smirks at him. “Is that your subtle way of asking if I’ve shagged Jenny yet?”

“Is that what you call her?” Sherlock says, biting viciously into a crisp.

“Since it’s her name, yes. I think you’ll like this one. She’s smart.”

 _I doubt that. I doubt it very much._ “Aren’t you worried that she’s a bit fast for you?”

John looks bewildered. “Fast? She’s an actuary. Her whole life is about the avoidance of risk. If anything, I have the opposite concern. She might be a bit too slow.”

“She frequents the Shadow Lounge. Not a locale known for its sluggishness.”

John is silent a moment. A normal observer would assume that he’s trying to swallow a last bite of sandwich. But Sherlock has had many a meal with him, and John is chewing twice as long as normal—he’s stalling, trying to make up a story. 

Finally he shrugs and says, “That wasn’t Jenny I was texting.”

“So you do have two new girlfriends.” Sherlock keeps his tone steady, but it takes effort.

“No. That was—nobody. Just a bit of fun. Nothing to be concerned about.” 

“I’m not concerned.”

“Good. Because you’ll have enough to worry about with this Beryl Coronet business. When we’re done eating, we should head over to the Met and see Lestrade. I’m sure you caught up online during the flight, but he has some details the papers haven’t published.” 

The change in subject isn’t exactly subtle. While Sherlock _is_ interested in the disappearance of the Earl’s daughter, he’s not quite ready to let the previous topic rest.

“Fun is all very well,” he says, “but you should be careful about this woman, John. I’ve known people like her before. She’s not a good influence. One day it’s cannabis, the next it’s cocaine.” When John just stares at him: “It is the same woman from last month, isn’t it?”

“That’s quite a leap, even for you.” 

“But a correct one.”

“Right. Okay.” John pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. “It’s not what you’re thinking. I’m certainly not going clubbing with her. Bit old for that, aren’t I?”

“So she’s younger.”

“She is, a bit. She’s also rather out of my league—what happened last month was a one-off. But she’s a big fan of the blog, so we’ve kept in touch. No ganga, no sex. Just texts and the odd e-mail or two. Seriously, it’s nothing to get resentful about.” 

“Resentful? Don’t be ridiculous. I was merely curious.” He sees John look skeptical at this, and it irritates him enough to continue: “It’s a fascinating conundrum, your romantic life. You don’t care about any of these women. Yet you continue to pursue them quite determinedly.” 

John looks almost amused. “I care. What makes you think I don’t?”

“You choose them carelessly. You discard them quickly. There’s something so random about it. _Desperate randomness,_ some might say.”

“I’m not desperate, Sherlock. I’m single.” John’s amusement is gone, brows drawn together, chin stuck out pugnaciously. “It’s called dating. Not all of us have your talent for celibacy.”

“It’s not a talent. It’s discipline. Anyone can form the habit.”

“Guess what? I don’t want to. Maybe you’re happy playing the violin and romancing your right hand—or whatever it is you do in your bedroom at night. For all I know, it’s bloody origami. But believe it or not, some of us enjoy human contact.”

“I’m quite aware of how much you enjoy it. All those girlfriends.” Sherlock’s lip curls.

“Christ, would you listen to yourself? You sound like you’re discussing some kind of bizarre aberration. It’s _normal_ —human.” John shakes his head sadly. “Fuck, Sherlock! Don’t you get lonely? Don’t you ever just want to touch someone?”

Sherlock looks down at his half-eaten sandwich. He’s suddenly exhausted: Perhaps the jetlag is catching up to him. His discipline is weak, he can’t keep the memories at bay. Images of Irene, as well as the more immediate sensual details. The feel of her lips, the taste of her skin—all the ways he enjoyed her during their time in Mumbai. Not unpleasant recollections, if there weren’t others mixed in. Memories older and darker. Of smoky clubs and shabby bedrooms, a welter of easy, professional flesh. Bitterness in his mouth and blue lights in his eyes. Track marks on his arm and scratches down his back.

He looks up to see John staring at him. He tries to pull the mask back into place, but it’s too late. John puts a hand on his wrist. Sherlock can feel the warmth of it through his shirt cuff. 

“It doesn’t have to be dangerous,” John says. “Just because two things have gone together doesn’t mean they have to stay together. You and your superior brain—you must see that.”

Of course he does. He doesn’t have to be high to have sex. There were sober times with Victor and Violet. He shagged Irene for hours without a hypodermic in sight. But these are anomalies in his sexual history. Old habits are so very hard to break. He wishes he could explain this to John, but he can’t. It’s not superiority which keeps him silent—it’s shame.

He doesn’t know how the conversation took this turn. He just wanted a nice chat and a chicken wrap before they went to the Met. Things have gotten entirely out of hand. So Sherlock gathers his control. He makes himself smile. 

“Are you offering to fix me up, John?”

John looks at him seriously a second longer. Then he pulls his hand back and shrugs. “Inflict you on a female of my acquaintance? I don’t think so. You should shag Molly and put her out of her misery. You know she’s gagging for it.”

“Gagging. There’s a word. It describes my reaction to that particular scenario exactly.”

John raises an eyebrow. “Maybe you should go to the Shadow Lounge. Find a nice bloke. Or a naughty one. I hear they’ve got both kinds there.”

“I have been there,” Sherlock says, looking at John steadily. “More than once.”

John holds the look, his eyes suddenly inscrutable. A strange quality of that dark blue gaze—most of the time it’s almost too easy to read. Then, suddenly, as opaque as the ocean. How ironic, that it always happens at the very times Sherlock is most desperate to see clearly.

 _I just outed myself to you, John. What do you think of that?_ Though Sherlock hasn’t said the words aloud, perhaps the question is on his face. His control is very bad today.

John gives his lovely smile. There’s something so gentle in it—understanding. As if you could tell him all of your troubles, lay your head upon his sturdy bosom, and he would understand. No wonder the ladies fall at his feet. Men would too if he were wired that way. Alas, he isn’t.

 _I wish you were,_ Sherlock thinks. He’s keeping his face carefully controlled, but he can’t stifle his thoughts. _I wish it very much. You see, I was wrong about you. You’re more dangerous than belladonna. In your gentle way, you tear me to pieces. Irene, wise to the cruelties of men, saw it first. Every time you leave with one of your ladies, it breaks my heart. By now there shouldn’t be anything left but fragments, but somehow it keeps beating. It keeps breaking. For you._

“You know it’s fine,” John says quietly. “I told you so the first night: It’s all fine.”

_If I kissed you right now in front of the whole café, would it be fine? How understanding are you? I used to think I knew, but I don’t. You’re so easy to read, except when you’re not._

There’s an instant when Sherlock almost does it. If they had been eating at the kitchen table upstairs, he would have. (Well, maybe.) But he can’t do it here. Sherlock has done much more than kiss men in public, but he doesn’t want anything like that linked to John. His feelings for him are private. It would kill something in Sherlock to have it revealed to the prying populace.

Especially since John would certainly reject him. John can’t be gay; Sherlock would have seen it by now. If there were any evidence—but there isn’t. John can’t love him, not in that way. It’s not how life works. Not Sherlock’s life. To be rejected by John, even in an understanding way—to be _pitied_ by him—Sherlock couldn’t recover from it. There isn’t enough cocaine in the world to blot out that disappointment.

Sherlock sees all this in a millisecond. It’s nothing he hasn’t worked out before. So he shrugs and says in his driest voice, “Thank you, John. You know how much your approval matters.”

John’s smile is brilliant, heartbreaking. It takes all Sherlock’s control not to kiss him after all. 

It’s something he’ll wonder about later. If he had kissed John, if John had kissed him back, how would it have changed the year to come? Impossible to know. What is certain is that it wouldn’t have changed the final outcome. Would the tortures of Moriarty have been more bearable with John as his lover? Maybe. But Sherlock’s inevitable parting from John would have been agony. Even more than it was already.

Sherlock doesn’t consider that now, of course. As discerning as he can be, he can’t have any idea what his archnemesis is planning, how craftily and speedily his doom is coming towards him. All he thinks now is how much he wishes John would quit looking at him like that. If his best friend weren’t so tragically, inexorably straight, it could give one all sorts of wicked ideas.

Then John scowls, and suddenly everything is all right again. Sherlock is back on familiar turf, after all his strange travels. He takes a sip of water and contents himself with looking superior.

“Wanker,” John says. “Are you going to finish those crisps?” He reaches for Sherlock’s plate.


	20. Chapter 20

** John, 2011-2012 **

  


_July_

Hello you. Attached are my corrections to your final draft of “The Adventure of the Crooked Man.” I must ask again: Did you have a bad experience with commas as a youth? Did the nasty old punctuation touch you in a naughty place? You can tell Uncle Neville.

Also, you must consider a title change. Yes, it’s very dramatic and descriptive, but the PC crowd will barbecue your bollocks if you insist on using the word “crooked.” Otherwise, it’s bloody brilliant. I’m quite chuffed to have had the first look at it. Your readers would be so jealous.

Drinks this week? If Sherlock doesn’t have you cataloging different kinds of dung or something.

—N  


  


Not afraid of commas. I have many thoughts—sometimes they require long sentences. Faulkner and Joyce were the same I consider myself not so much ungrammatical as modernist. However, my stream of consciousness sometimes overflows so thanks for the notes.

Haven’t the slightest idea what to call the damn thing—while I agree that “crooked” isn’t exactly sensitive “The Adventure of the Handicapable Man” doesn’t have the same ring, does it? 

Drinks sound brilliant. Friday have a date with Jenny (still trying to get in there) but Thursday is open. The Cock and Bull at 9? Remember what Sheila said last time however, and at this point I must agree with her: NO MORE BLOODY BEATLES.

—J  


  
 **Any physicians’ cures for a wicked hangover? I’m dying. –NS**

**Pussy. We didn’t drink that much –JW**

**You didn’t. Left me at 11, geezer that you are. Went to the Shadow Lounge after. –NW**

**How was it? –JW**

**Fucked a busboy in the loo. Think it was a boy anyway—I was v. drunk. Jager shots, ugh. You should’ve been there to save me from myself. If we could get you in. Not with that jumper, I’m afeared –NS**

**Lovely rack, big green eyes, freckles—I am fond of a ginger girl. –J**

**Huh? –NS**

**I think you’ll like this one. She’s very smart—J**

**WTF? Are you hungover? –NS**

**Sorry. Crossed messages. Haven’t had coffee yet. –JW**

**Where’s S this early? Doesn’t he sleep during daylight hours, like a good vampire? –NS**

**India wrangling poisonous snakes. Don’t ask –JW**

**That’s why you didn’t beg off drinks last night. Sly boots. When the cat’s away . . . –NS**

**I do as I like. Sherlock is not the boss of me. –JW**

**Whatever. Can’t argue. Head huuuuurts. Come give me a shot of something—B12, Demerol, hemlock, don’t care. –NS**

**You brought this on yourself. Wages of sin and all that. –JW**

**Rub my temples, then. Attend to the sick and quite possibly dying, like a good medico. –NS**

**Sorry mate. Got work in an hour. –JW**

**Heartless sod. After I’m dead, my ghost will haunt you. Here’s what it will sound like: oooooooooooooooo. Get used to the noise, you’ll be hearing it a lot. –NS**

**Okay Casper. Drink some tomato juice and take two aspirin. You’ll survive. Laters. –JW**

  


* * *

  


_October_

The preliminary draft of “Hound” is smashing. Giant devil dogs, misty moors, and the readers will eat up the conspiracy angle with a great big runcible spoon. But do I think you should trim the middle section—there's a bit too much to-ing and fro-ing across the heath.

Also—and don’t ruffle up like an angry kestrel, you know I have your best interests at heart—you should really reconsider the parts where you go off about what a prat Sherlock is being. I’m sure he _was_ being a prat, but dear boy, you sound like an angry missus. If you’re tired of the impertinent speculation about you two, you must try to _tone it down._

Otherwise, good stuff. I’m glad to see my comma lessons have paid off. Barely any run-ons at all, except when you’re queening out about Sherlock. I suppose you couldn’t help yourself.

—N  


  


Trust me, I was being restrained. You did read the bit in the pub, right? I could have kicked him. Then he drugs me the next morning by way of apology. Why do I put up with his bullshit? The only ready explanation is that I’m as thick as he sometimes claims.

On the subject of gay, I have already toned it down quite a bit from my first draft. Left out all the times where Henry Knight tried to have sex with me. That’s three times (3). I was almost ready to bend him over the granite counter in his big old house just to shut him up but Sherlock kept lurking about. Henry is also very crazy. Cute as hell and stinking rich but totally fucking bonkers. Is it worth the trouble with someone like that? I don’t think so.

Anyway, I will take your remarks to heart. The result is that Sherlock will come off looking far better than he probably deserves but that’s how the world works I suppose. The posh gits always get their own way about things. 

—J  


  


You do sound peevish, J. Tell me you and Sherlock have made up, please. It makes me sad to think of you two on the outs. It's like hearing about those tiffs between John and Paul during the recording of _Abbey Road._ All that creative chemistry cracking apart—heartbreaking.

—N  


  


No worries. If I haven’t chucked him out the window by now it’s not going to happen. And the real culprit in Dartmoor was probably the dread pirate Nicotine. Sherlock’s trying to quit again and having a bloody time of it. But at least he _is_ trying to quit. (hint hint hint)

—J

  


* * *

  


_December_

**Help J I’m surrounded by Tories send ganga and copies of the Guardian pls. –N**

**Nothing like a family Christmas is there? —J**

**Mum trying to fix me up a with a neighbor. Fat slag. Not fuckable even if I liked pussy. –N**

**You’re not out to your parents? –J**

**Done everything but show up to Sunday roast in assless chaps. Mum is stubborn, that’s where I get it. Dad just stares blankly. Be thankful you’re an orphan. –N**

**Never thought of it like that. When are you seeing Sophie? –J**

**New Year’s. No drunken shenanigans for me. Just as well. Tired of tricking. Depressing after awhile. All the good ones are taken. :-( —N**

**Nobody ever met their soulmate sucking cock in a pub toilet. Try a library or something. Don’t wear the assless chaps. —J**

**And downplay my greatest feature? Never. Speaking of soulmates, how’s Jenny? –N**

**Wouldn’t shut up about her married sisters. Actually used the words “biological clock.” Exterminate, exterminate. –J**

**Heartless sod. Now you’re all alone for the new year. –N**

**Sherlock wants to go to Greece. Has this queer theory about the age of the statues on Delos. Don’t know what he’s on about but there’s fuck all else to do. Might go. –J**

**Might? MYKONOS. Nude beaches and tavernas. Go go go, so I can seethe with envy –N**

**Can you see me on a nude beach? –J**

**Um, yes. I can picture it rather well. Give S a shock. He would look like this :-o —N**

**More like this >:-p Must make it back to the gym. –J**

**He would adore you love handles and all –N**

**There’s Mrs. H with the ham must go –J**

**Fine, fine. Happy Holidays, J. Better times ahead, yeah? –N**

**2012 will be brilliant. I can feel it. Go give the Tories hell. –J**

  


* * *

  


_March_

“The Sussex Vampires,” now there’s a cracking title. You know how much the public loves a good bloodsucker these days. (Or even a shitty one, hence the success of _Twilight._ ) Not many notes, except to give us a bit more detail on the scary goth kids and their Satanic rituals. Sure to get you lots of ink, articles in the _Telegraph:_ “Shock Horror in Sussex, Youth Gone Wild.” The blue-haired brigade will clutch their pearls for a month. Not that Sherlock needs much more ink, does he? I told you he was going to peak this year.

In that vein, nice write-up in the _Times._ You looked cute but what’s wrong with Sherlock? Always has a face like a headstone when they take his picture. If he’s not careful, somebody’s going to come along and carve “Sacred to the Memory” on his forehead. Mystique does have certain advantages, but he’d get a lot farther with my fellow journalists if he didn’t come off like some sort of snooty ghoul all the time. Remember, the public likes its monsters to _sparkle._

You should reconsider my interview offer. He’s not going to find a more sympathetic ear than me, love. Contrariwise, I could interview you. Might be better, since you can be a charming bloody bastard when it counts. I promise not to refer to you as “Bachelor John Watson.” Or perhaps you could pull in Sherlock’s spook brother? Oh, the questions I have for him.

—N  


  


I think I can speak for Sherlock when I say an interview is out of the question. Sympathetic or no you just wouldn’t find him a good subject. As for me, I’d rather maintain dignified silence for now. The best bits are in the blog and the other bits are things I can’t talk about publically. I only told you about Mycroft because I was very drunk at the time. Fucking Jager shots.

Don’t take the rejection personally, Nev. If I were going to speak to anybody on the record it would be you. FWIW I have been trying to take your advice about handling the press and also handling Sherlock. If you see me whispering to him during one of the press conferences, it’s because I’m reminding him not to be a fucking asshole. Sometimes it works.

—J  


  


Good to hear. You really can’t be too careful these days. Sherlock isn’t just a private detective anymore, not since the Ricoletti thing. He’s a millimeter away from famous, and you’re getting dragged into the spotlight along with him. Keep whispering if it helps, and tell him to smile, yeah? If nothing else, he should keep the hat. It’s just ridiculous enough to humanize him.

Shit, I have to go. Just got a tweet, something odd is going on at Pentonville Prison. Keep me posted if you hear anything on your end.

—N

  


* * *

  


_April_

**Watching the coverage online. Your man S sure can wear a suit. Yum. Armani? –N**

**I don’t know who made the bloody suit. Don’t care. Not super gay like you. –J**

**Stand down, soldier. Don’t take your nerves over the trial out on me. –N**

**Right. Sorry. Just want this horrid day to be over. –J**

**How bad can it be? Your sis advised him, right? Keep it simple and brief. Don’t be a fucking asshole. Surely his giant squishy brain can process that. –N**

**Dunno. I’ve been telling him the latter for over two years now. Still hasn’t sunk in. –J**

**Too bad you can’t stand next to him in the dock, yeah? Whisper when needed. –N**

**Actually asked about that. The judge looked at me like I was mental. –J**

**And super gay? –N**

**S back from the loo. More later. –J**

**Okay, it’s later. Everything all right? —N**

**No. He’s advising the fucking barrister on fucking criminal procedure. –J**

**::face palm:: –N**

**It gets better. He just characterized Moriarty as, and I quote, ‘not a man at all. He’s a spider at the center of a web. A criminal web with a thousand threads’ Fuck me. –J**

**So much for simple. –N**

**CHRIST SHERLOCK DON’T START DEDUCING THE SODDING JURY —J**

**Go down there and smack him. Quick. Just like curbing a cocker spaniel. –N**

**Too fucking late. Judge banged him up for contempt. Have to go. Have to call Harry. –J**

**Right, of course. Drinks later on? I think you could use one. Or many. –N**

**All the scotch in fucking Scotland. —J**

  


No. You are not going to do this. If you want to commit literary suicide, there are easier ways. Plagiarize something. Make up a fake memoir. Do not write a ten-page manifesto accusing an acquitted man of being a thief, murderer, and all around criminal mastermind and publish it on your blog. You want my notes on this? DELETE DELETE DELETE. I like to rake the muck with the best of them, but all you’re asking for is a libel suit of epic proportions.

It’s not that I don’t believe you. Fuck me, I’ve seen Jim Moriarty. The man looks like an insane muppet. I’m sure he did get to the bloody jury, but _you have no proof._ Quoting Sherlock isn’t going to make anybody believe you, not after his star performance in the witness box.

You can’t destroy Moriarty this way, John. It would be easier to put two in his skull. Wait, don’t do that either. This isn’t Afghanistan. Just—take a break. Go to the gym or shag that pretty secretary you’ve been seeing a bit more. Stay away from your blog until you cool down.

I know why you’re doing this. I know you’re worried as hell. I think it’s amazing that you love him so much. (Don’t ruffle up, that _isn’t_ innuendo. We’ll call it platonic if that makes you feel better.) But you can’t protect Sherlock by hurting yourself. You know he doesn’t want that.

—N  


  


John? Are you there? Don’t make me start texting.

—N  


  
 **Are you angry? That wasn’t my intention. Be mad if you like but don’t freeze me out. –N**

**I will sit on your doorstep sobbing, if I can shove the bloody fangirls out of the way. –N**

**Sitting there, sobbing, wearing a giant t-shirt that says I AM SHERLOCKED. Yes you did tell me about that wanker. You really should stay away from the Jager. –N**

**John? :-( —N**  


  


Sorry. I unplugged for the day, I needed to think things over. Fine, I won’t publish it. But keep a copy of it for me will you? I’ve deleted mine because still I don’t quite trust myself, but I want someone to have it. At some point a written record might be useful, and it’s better if it’s held by a neutral outside party. I’m not trying to get all melodramatic but you never know. Moriarty is melodramatic in the scariest possible way.

Ever have a feeling of impending doom? I did in Afghanistan, a sick prickly feeling right before the bullets started flying. Here all the bullets are invisible. It’s a shit state of affairs. 

—J

  


* * *

  


_June_

**Who the fuck is this cunt Kitty Riley? Ever heard of her? —J**

**Yes, unfortunately. At J-school together. Got a handy off her at rave once, she writes as badly as she pulls cock. What did she fuck up now? –N**

**Going after Sherlock. Expose in the Sun, hits the stands on Saturday. –J**

**You found out about this how? Don’t tell me you’re shagging one of Murdoch’s lot. Herpes would be the least of your worries. –N**

**Never mind how I know. Other shit going down too. Can’t say more but if you’re in the vicinity of 221-B a Kevlar vest would not be an overreaction. –J**

**Shit. What the hell is going on? –N**

**J? You’re worrying me, mate. –N**

**No time. New case, something urgent. Can’t go into details. Will text when I can. –J**

**Sorry, it took all day and half of the night. Can I say again that Sherlock is amazing? –J**

**Is this the Bruhl kidnapping? It just hit the wires. You could at least give me a pull quote or something. I’m tired of posting about Prince Philip’s bloody bladder infection.–N**

**‘Sherlock’s an annoying dick.’ How’s that for a quote? Just jumped in a cab and left me. Ass. I’ll try to give details tomorrow, but things are still shaky—there he is have to go. –J**

**The wires are going nuts. S is a fugitive? You’re a hostage? This makes no sense. –N**

**Please get in touch don’t care about the fucking story just let me know you’re okay. –N**

**I just saw. Jesus Christ, I just saw the footage on the BBC website and I don’t believe what I’m seeing. He didn’t really jump. This has to be some kind of mistake. –N**

**I’m coming by the flat. I know you don’t like that and I don’t care. –N**

**Where the hell are you? The flat’s deserted except for the goddamn media. I’m seeing the headlines in the newspapers and it’s like I’m living on fucking Mars. –N**

**I’m going to keep texting you. Tell me to fuck off I don’t care just say something. –N**

**John? John? For God’s sake. –N**

** END OF BOOK TWO **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're interested in a peek behind the scenes, check out my author notes for chapters 13-20. There are pictures, comments, and even a video! The notes are available at my Dreamwidth and Livejournal blogs.
> 
>  
> 
> [Author Notes at Dreamwidth](http://chase820.dreamwidth.org/304330.html#cutid1)
> 
>  
> 
> [Author Notes at Livejournal](http://chase820.livejournal.com/318494.html)
> 
>  
> 
> Links to other notes can be found at the end of chapters 5, 12, 23, 28, 29, 32, 38, 42, and 47.


	21. Chapter 21

_The first day after a death, the new absence_  
 _Is always the same; we should be careful_

_Of each other, we should be kind_  
 _While there is still time._

_—from Philip Larkin, “The Mower”_

  


** BOOK THREE: 2012 **

  


* * *

  
** John, 2012 **

_He was a most peculiar man._  
That's what Mrs. Riordan says and she should know;  
She lived upstairs from him.  
She said he was a most peculiar man. 

_He was a most peculiar man._  
He lived, all alone, within a house,  
within a room, within himself.  
A most peculiar man. 

_He had no friends, he seldom spoke_  
and no one in turn ever spoke to him,  
'cause he wasn't friendly, and he didn't care,  
and he wasn't like them.  
Oh, no! He was a most peculiar man. 

_He died last Saturday._  
He turned on the gas and he went to sleep,  
with the windows closed so he'd never wake up  
to his silent world and his tiny room;  
And Mrs. Riordan says he has a brother somewhere  
who should be notified soon. 

_And all the people said, ‘What a shame that he's dead.  
But wasn't he a most peculiar man?’_

Harry stalks into John’s study and hits the pause button on his iPod stereo. 

“I was listening to that,” he says.

“I know, sweetie. And while I appreciate moody acoustic pop like any lesbian woman, let’s try something a bit less on-the-nose, eh? Clara has some nice Indigo Girls CD’s you could rip.”

John makes a face and shuts the lid of his laptop. His sister knots a silk scarf around the neck of her smart navy suit and peers at him assessingly. “No clinic today?”

“No.”

“Hmm. You usually work on Fridays. This doesn’t have anything to do with you coming home two hours early yesterday, does it?”

“Christ. Am I under surveillance?”

“Constantly. Now you know what it was like for me, growing up with you. Look how well I turned out.” She perches on the edge of his desk. “Tell me what happened.”

John pinches the bridge of his nose. “There was—an incident.”

“And?” 

“A reporter. Masquerading as a patient. The first one in weeks, and I suppose I’ve gotten out of the habit of tolerating them.”

 _“And?”_ Harry’s hazel eyes narrow. Though technically a solicitor, John’s sister can interrogate with the best of them. 

No point prolonging the cross-examination. “I bloodied his nose. Sarah sent me home to think upon my sins. Told me not to come back until Monday.”

“Fucking hell. Am I going to have another tort on my hands? I just got you out of hot water with the Met, and now you go punching somebody else in the face. What’s wrong with you?” 

When John says nothing, Harry sighs and says: “Right. I know. It’s awful. But you can’t keep doing this. You’re going to get yourself sued. Not to mention sacked.”

“Not the latter. I’m quitting the clinic. I’ll tell Sarah on Monday.”

Harry nods. “It’s probably just as well. Not like you need the money, is it?”

He doesn’t. John will never have to work again once the estate is settled. Sherlock’s last will was dated May 2010, right after the incident at the swimming pool. Just four months after John moved into 221-B. He was surprised at how quickly Sherlock had made the decision. Perhaps when you’re a millionaire it’s easier to be decisive. (Also vindictive: It’s very likely that the legacy was more about enraging Mycroft rather than enriching John.)

He used to fantasize about it, as everyone does. Being rich, able to go where he likes and spend what he wants. As with many things, the reality is quite different. 

He hasn’t gone anywhere or done anything for three months. Just worked, ate, and slept, and it’s been a struggle to remember the last two. He was lucky that Harry and Clara were willing to take him in. He doesn’t have to think here in Hornchurch. Harry in particular has taken care of things while John puts himself back together. It’s the help she offered three years ago, and he wouldn’t accept. She was drinking then, separated from Clara, but that wasn’t why he turned her down. He didn’t want to be dependent. 

He wonders how his life would have been if he’d swallowed his pride and taken his sister’s help in 2009. He would never have met Sherlock, and he would never have started the blog. Where would he be now? Who would he be with? 

Harry puts a hand on his shoulder. She kisses the top of his head. He smells her perfume: L’air du Temps. His sister has worn it for years. He doesn’t know why it makes his eyes water now. 

“There there, big brother,” she says, patting his back. “It’s going to be all right. If I have to threaten every hack in Britain.”

She’s gotten a good start so far. John was mentioned a lot in the early coverage of Sherlock’s death. Then Harry got on the phone. His sister is 5’2 on a good day, but she’s intimidating when she needs to be. Even Murdoch’s lot have mostly left him alone: It’s why the reporter at the clinic yesterday took him so off-guard. Harry stood up to the Met as well, which is why he isn’t currently serving time for assaulting the Police Commissioner. 

_“I know just how many cases Holmes helped you with,”_ Harry said, tilting her head and giving the PC a puckish smile. “The Times _doesn’t know, but that’s easily fixed. One e-mail and your whole rotten house comes crashing down. A shame, when you’ve just gotten over that phone hacking business. So let’s quit dicking around and drop those charges, eh?”_

“You’ve done too much already,” John says. “I don’t deserve it.”

“Bullshit,” Harry whispers in his ear. Another whiff of scent, and now he remembers. Mum wore L’air du Temps. 

“You’re going to be late for work,” he says.

Harry glances at her watch and hops off the desk. “Shit! And I have to drop Clara off at the college, the fucking Range Rover is at it again. Forty thousand quid for a car, and it can’t be arsed to start half the time. We should have kept the Fiat.”

She pauses in the doorway. “Oh, we’re going to be late tonight. We have that appointment.” 

“Huh?” Harry gives John a significant look and he remembers. “Right. Are you excited?”

“Sure. Just like shopping for a car. Hope this one is less of a lemon, though.”

“Yeah. Can’t exactly trade it in, can you?”

Harry sighs and shakes her head. She hustles out in a cloud of perfume and general briskness. He hears her talking to Clara in the lounge. He can’t tell what they’re saying but he can hear their voices, twining around each other in the easy back-and-forth of a long-established couple. He’s glad when the voices fade and the house grows silent again.

He watches them cross the lawn to the detached garage, sharing a big yellow umbrella against the drizzling September rain. Harry’s small, sturdy form contrasts sharply with Clara’s much taller, slimmer one. But their heads are bent close together, blonde crop and black ringlets. Something about the sight gives him a queer pain, and John turns away from the window.

He pauses a moment, surveying his surroundings. Really, Harry and Clara couldn’t have been more hospitable. They’ve given him the downstairs bedroom. It’s essentially a suite, with its own bath and even this small study attached. Forty square meters to call his own, and it’s nicely furnished to boot: a lot of Debenhams and John Lewis, the odd IKEA bookshelf or two, all of it so new it still smells a bit of the workshop. The rest of the house is new too, one of the detached mock-Tudors cropping up in all the best suburbs of London. It has four bedrooms and three baths upstairs, as well as attic space which could be more bedrooms or another study. Downstairs is an American-style kitchen complete with granite countertops and stainless steel appliances, and a huge lounge overlooking the green back garden. A dream home in every respect.

Sherlock would have hated it. John would too, if he had to live here long. But he won’t.

John opens his laptop again. He looks at the page he was inspecting so attentively when Harry came barging into his study: _Doctors Without Borders._

He re-reads the list of requirements. _Experience in the developing world, ability to manage stress, ability to work as a team, significant and relevant professional experience, willingness to work in unstable environments._ Even the language requirement is no problem. His Arabic and Farsi aren’t great but he can make himself understood, and no doubt he will improve the longer he’s there. The organization is asking for a 9-12 month commitment, but John can give more than that. As much time as they could possibly want. 

Afghanistan. What luck that they urgently need people there. But if they send him somewhere else, he won’t make a fuss. As long as it’s far away from Great Britain. He won’t miss home. 

He’ll be able to forget once he’s in Afghanistan or Yemen or Sierra Leone. He won’t think of the last few months, all the blaring red-tops and smirking newscasts. He won’t think of Baker Street or the Metropolitan Police. Eventually, even Moriarty will fade. 

Someday John won’t see Sherlock’s face in his dreams. He likes to think this is possible, if he lives to be old. He might not; doctors in war zones sometimes don’t. The idea doesn’t bother him as much as it probably should. 

John thinks about starting up the iPod again, but he’s wallowed enough for one morning. He should eat breakfast, but he’s not hungry. Bed sounds like a better prospect. He tossed and turned all night, as he often does. A quiet house and a rain shower might lull him into sleep.

He goes into his room and lies on the bed. He closes his eyes, but soon they pop open again. He looks up at the ceiling. Sometimes he misses the one at Baker Street. It had so many interesting cracks. This is just smooth white plaster. Nothing to entertain the eye.

He could go back to Baker Street, if he wants. Even the most determined curiosity seekers have deserted it for the next big thing. Speedy’s is still there, though Mrs. Hudson isn’t. She’s living with her daughter in Cheshire; the last time they spoke she told him that she’s thinking of putting the house on the market. He could buy it. But what would be the point? Even if he could stand living there, he’s not going to be around much longer.

It will fall to Harry to sort out the rest of the estate. Just as well, since he’ll be leaving the money in her hands. He doesn’t care about it. Neither did Mycroft, which was a surprise.

 _“I assume you’ll be contesting?”_ Harry asked that day in the solicitor’s office. They’d been given the largest conference room, with its mahogany paneling and plush chairs and huge oval table, polished to a mirror-finish. A clear nod to Mycroft’s status.

_“Why would I do that, Ms. Watson?” he asks._

_“Because it’s millions of pounds, Mr. Holmes.”_

_Mycroft shrugs. “My brother did exactly as he wished his entire life. Far be it from me to interfere with his plans now.” Mycroft’s tone is polite. He’s been polite during the entire meeting, none of his normal ironic condescension. But his politeness is distracted, slightly impatient. As if he wants to get this over and return to more important matters._

_“What about other family members?” Harry says._

_“I’m sorry?”_

_Harry shuffles through papers. “Sherrinford Holmes. He’s mentioned here as a partner in holdings in Australia. The language is rather vague, I’ll have to call this firm in Los Angeles.”_

_“Not necessary. Ford was very clear when I spoke to him,” says another lawyer, a glossy brunette who has been silent up to this point. John is surprised to hear her American accent. “He wants it to go on just like before. Sole creative rights revert to him, as per Violet Jones’ original will, but any future earnings from her estate are split 50/50.”_

_“Creative rights?” Harry says. “Who’s Violet Jones? Who’s Sherrinford, for that matter?”_

_“Are you kidding?” the American lawyer says. “Sherrinford Holmes. The oldest brother.”_

_John’s head jerks up. He looks at her, but she’s clearly serious. He looks at Mycroft._

_“He hasn’t lived in England for many years,” Mycroft says. “He’s not a factor, John. He won’t want Sherlock’s money.”_

_“Fuck the money. Why didn’t Sherlock tell me he had another brother?”_

_“You would have to ask him. But that’s not possible, is it? Unless you possess a Ouija board.”_

_He smiles a bit at this. He actually smiles._

_“Fuck you,” John says. “You fucking block of ice.”_

_“John—” Harry begins, but he waves a hand at her and keeps going._

_“Maybe you don’t give a shit that your brother is dead. Not surprising—you didn’t give a shit when he was alive. Maybe you’ve forgotten, Mycroft. But I haven’t. You didn’t do a goddamn thing to help. You sat at the Diogenes Club drinking scotch and you let it all happen. Did you really hate Sherlock that much? Well, congratulations. He threw himself off a building. I saw his blood on the pavement. You can see it too, it’s on fucking YouTube.”_

_There’s a moment of awful silence. Then Mycroft speaks._

_“I have no regrets,” he says softly. “My brother knew how I felt about him when he was alive. Pity that you can’t say the same. Who knew a decorated Army doctor could be such a coward?”_

_John is over the table so fast that he’s got Mycroft by the throat before anybody else can move. But Mycroft doesn’t need help. He jerks his hands up, breaking the chokehold, and headbutts John squarely in the nose. John is shaking stars from his eyes when he’s seized from behind by the youngest and biggest of Mycroft’s lawyers._

_“I’ll take care of him,” the man says. “The bloody cheek—” He jerks John’s bad shoulder up, and John can’t help crying out at the bolt of searing pain that shoots down his left arm._

_“Take your hands off him right fucking now,” Harry screeches. “I’ll bury you in so much paper you’ll never see sunlight again. Try me, asshole.”_

_“Wow, it’s just like being back in New Jersey,” the American lawyer says._

_“Gentlemen, ladies, please,” Mycroft says. “Nigel, release him.”_

_John’s arms are unpinned. Mycroft stands, smoothing his hair. You would never know that a minute ago he was brawling like a soccer hooligan. These Holmes boys, so full of surprises._

_“I apologize,” he says to John. “My remark was uncalled for. This is an emotional day.” He says this with all the feeling of a bored robot. “I assume that you also regret those rather hasty words directed at me?”_

_John sighs and nods. His raging energy has drained away. His shoulder still aches, and he’s pretty sure his nose is bleeding._

_“Very good. I think we can withdraw, then. The solicitors will handle the rest of the details.”_

_“Not him,” Harry says, glaring at Nigel. “I don’t negotiate with thugs.”_

_“Thug?” Nigel spits back. “I graduated from Cambridge. Where did you matriculate?”_

_“Oxford, you chinless berk. Do you want to continue this dick-measuring contest? I guarantee mine is bigger than yours.”_

_“You nasty little—” but Mycroft cuts Nigel off with a gesture._

_“Get out,” he says, not even looking at him. Nigel’s shoulders slump, and he slinks away._

_Mycroft looks at Harry. “Ms. Watson, if you’d escort your brother to a cab? Then you and the others can continue without us.”_

_“Fine,” Harry says. She gets John by the arm, putting a tissue in his hand. “Here, wipe.”_

No, John isn’t going to miss any of this. He sits up from the bed. He slouches towards the kitchen, ready to have a crack at breakfast after all.


	22. Chapter 22

** John, 2012 (cont.) **

He’s at the kitchen counter poking indifferently at a bowl of cornflakes when the doorbell rings. He shuffles to the vestibule. His hair is sticking up and he’s only wearing trackpants, but fuck it. Probably the Avon lady again. She will be disappointed: The lipstick lesbians are at work. 

“Sorry, Mrs. Henderson. Harry and Clara won’t be home until—” he stops, blinking.

“Hi, John.”

“Hello,” he says, running a hand through his hair. 

“You look surprised to see me.”

“Yeah. It’s been awhile, um—”

“You want to say Anthea. But I haven’t used that one in ages. It’s Imogen now.”

John looks at her steadily. “Come in, Julia.”

She pouts a bit at this and brushes past him into the house. He follows her, shutting the door.

John hasn’t seen Anthea—no, _Julia_ —since the conclusion of the Beryl Coronet case. George Burnwell, Beryl’s lover and kidnapper, had not come quietly: Julia walked over blood drops and shards of glass in her red-soled spike heels, texting rapidly all the while. When John warned her to watch her step she raised her head, giving him the glare that a princess gives a presumptuous peasant. Then she went back to texting.

Julia is as pretty as ever, in a silky blue mac that matches her eyes. It’s tightly belted around her waist, emphasizing her curves. Water droplets sparkle in her long dark hair, which is sleek and slightly waved at the ends, like the heroine in a _film noir._ For once John appears to have her full attention. Her gaze is fixed on his face, glossy red lips slightly parted. 

“You look well,” he says.

“Thanks,” she says. “You look—” she stops.

“What?”

“Tired.”

“I didn’t sleep well last night.”

“Ah. Have you tried Ambien? My father swears by it.”

“My sister-in-law has a scrip. I’m dubious. You hear stories—hallucinations and sleep-eating.” John remembers his manners. “Can I take your coat?” 

“No.” Julia shoves her hands in her pockets, as if afraid he’ll try to take the garment by force.

 _Okay, then._ “Does Mycroft want me?” 

“Why would Mycroft want you?” 

“I don’t know, that’s why I’m asking.”

“No,” she says. “He hasn’t mentioned you in weeks. Can I have a drink? It’s a long drive from Westminster. Traffic was awful.”

John nods towards the kitchen, and as she walks ahead of him, he sees that her footwear is less than practical. Another pair of black heels, slingbacks this time, with those same saucy red soles. 

“I’m surprised you didn’t slip,” he says. When she turns, giving him a puzzled glance: “You’re not exactly wearing rubbers, are you?”

She glances down at her feet. “I’ve been wearing Louboutins since I was 17. I never slip.”

“Right.” John waves her to one of the counter stools and opens the fridge. “We’ve got Perrier—a bit pretentious but Clara likes it. Also OJ, and this pomegranate stuff. I think it’s bloody awful and the health claims are rubbish but my sister insists—”

“I’d prefer bourbon.”

He turns and looks at her. “We don’t keep liquor around. If we did, it’s 11 AM.”

She shrugs. “It’s after dark somewhere.”

“Not here. This is not an episode of _Mad Men.”_ John plunks the OJ carton on the counter. “There you go. Or there’s lemon Perrier, or that POM crap if you can stand it.”

“Orange juice is fine,” Julia says, rather meekly for her. John pours her a glass and she drinks half of it at once. She puts the glass down but keeps holding it, her scarlet nails tapping on the side, making a staccato tune. It occurs to him that she’s nervous. About what?

He lets her take another swallow of juice. Then he leans forward over the counter and asks, “So. Why are you here?”

Julia’s gaze, which had been trained somewhere on his midsection, darts to his face and then away again, like a startled fly. Yes, definitely nervous. She tosses her head, looking out the French doors that lead from the dining area into the garden.

“This is very nice,” she says. “Quite new, but—that’s not such a bad thing, is it? I’ve never lived in a house that was less than 200 years old. I imagine this is very snug in winter. New windows and modern insulation—the fuel bills must be quite reasonable.”

“I don’t know. You’d have to ask Harry.”

“Your sister must do very well. But solicitors do, don’t they? If they’re good. I hear she’s very good. Mycroft—” she stops, taking another sip of juice. “Mycroft was quite impressed with her when they met. He says if she weren’t already a partner in her firm, he might offer her a job. He says it’s unusual to meet a woman with real pluck. He actually used that word.”

“Does he want her mobile number? I have to warn him, she’s married.”

“He knows that.” Julia is suddenly peevish. “Also that she’s a lesbian. He doesn’t want to _date_ her, John. Don’t be stupid.” She sets the glass on the counter with a thunk.

“I was joking, Julia.” 

“Right. Of course.” She looks down, shoving her hands back in her pockets. John wonders if she already fortified herself with a bourbon or two before she came here. He’s never seen her like this before. It’s like watching one of the marble ladies in the British Museum come to life. She’s actually much more attractive this way. The difference between stone and breathing flesh. 

“Are you okay?” he asks.

Her head jerks up. “I’m fine. What makes you think I’m not?”

“You drove 20 miles in the middle of the day to see me. John Watson, whose existence you’ve barely acknowledged, despite an acquaintanceship of some years. You must admit it’s odd.” 

She gives her glossy red smile, but he sees her lips are trembling a little. “If I asked you not to ask—not yet—would you?”

“All right.” John scratches his head. “What would you like to do? _Judge Judy_ is on in a few.”

“Thanks, no. I don’t watch television. Well, just _Downton Abbey.”_ Julia looks around Harry and Clara’s well-appointed lounge. “Do you think you could take me over the house instead?”

“If that’s what you want. Where would you like to start? The garden is quite nice, or Clara’s just redone the second guest bedroom—”

“Anywhere. Whatever you think best.”

The rain is letting up so John starts in the garden, Julia’s spike heels catching in the grass as he shows her Clara’s vegetable patch; Harry’s shrubs and flower beds. He leads her upstairs to the attic, where she is quite taken with the large, high-ceilinged space: “Lovely. Usually attics are so cramped, but you could do anything with this, couldn’t you?” She runs an assessing finger over the linens in the upstairs bedrooms, nodding appreciatively at Clara’s custom silk draperies. She gives an envious sigh at the steam shower in the master bath. Downstairs in the lounge, her lips purse at the fabric Harry chose for the sofa and chairs: “See how it’s already showing wear? You should never try to save money on upholstery, John. Very false economy.” 

“Noted,” he says. “I suppose that ends our tour. You’ve seen the kitchen.”

Julia shoves her hands in her coat pockets and turns towards the hallway door of the lounge. “What’s in there?” 

“Just my rooms.”

“Can I see them?”

“Why?”

“You promised to show me the whole house.” 

John looks at her closely for a minute. Her face, so calm and relaxed while she was nattering on about upholstery, has gone all marble again. No help there. Finally, he just shrugs and leads her to his little suite, thankful that he actually made the bed this morning. 

She pokes her head into his bath and study, but despite her insistence on seeing everything, she seems uninterested in the rooms. She hurries along to his bedroom. She stops by the window. Her eyes take in the unbleached linen curtains and beige walls. She runs a hand over the duvet, with its pattern of stylized leaves in neutral browns and greens. Her gaze lingers on the walnut chest with its bare, polished top. “Very tasteful,” she says. “You didn’t decorate it.”

“Thanks.”

“I didn’t mean it that way.” She pauses. “It looks nothing like Baker Street.”

He frowns at her. “When were you at Baker Street?”

“A few weeks ago, with Mycroft. He was picking up some of Sherlock’s things. Mementos.”

“Who knew robots could be sentimental?”

Julia’s brow wrinkles. “Mycroft isn’t a robot. You don’t know him.”

“And you do?”

“Since I was born. Our fathers were great friends.”

John considers this a moment. “So you knew the others boys, too. Sherlock and—Sheridan?”

“Sherrinford. I don’t remember him; he left a long time ago. Sherlock I knew. He was always off in his own world. Mycroft was more attentive.” Her hands play nervously with the belt of her mac. “He was so kind to me when I was a little girl.”

“Mycroft? Kind?”

“Yes. Though he’s somewhat different now.” Julia looks out the window, her eyes far away. 

After a moment, she comes back to herself with a slight shake. She turns to John and smiles. “You know, it’s my birthday today.”

John blinks at the shift in topic, but manages to say, “Happy Birthday.”

“Thanks.”

“September. I suppose that makes you a Virgo.”

“I am,” Julia says. She unties the belt on her mac. She whips it off, silk hissing against silk, and throws it on the floor. She starts coming closer, unbuttoning the coat as she walks. 

“You asked me why I came. I’m 28 years old today. I’ve decided to give myself a present.”

She comes even closer. He can smell her perfume. Not L’air du Temps, thank God. Julia smells like orange and vanilla, with an undernote of something else, smokier and sweeter. Lilies ablaze. She stares up at him, her eyes as wide and intent as a cat’s. 

“What—what present?” John stammers softly.

“You.” She shrugs the mac off her shoulders. It falls to the floor, and John gapes. Not polite under normal circumstances, but the expected reaction at a moment like this.

She’s wearing almost nothing. Just a black bra and matching knickers, in the filmiest of fabrics. The thin netting is embroidered all over with red roses, but they don’t hide anything. He can see her large nipples, peaked and pink. He can see the gentle swell of her pubis, adorned with close-trimmed dark hair. The fabric of her lingerie is so fragile, her ripe curves test it to its limits. Her white breasts spill over the cups of the bra. Her lush hips strain against the lacy strings of her knickers. One touch—two at most—would tear everything away.

John knows he should speak. Say something clever, or at least complimentary. But all the blood is leaving his brain and going south. Making it rush faster is the realization that she’s been like this all along. For an hour she’s been beside him, and beneath her mac was this. Waiting for him.

John tears his eyes away from her body and forces himself to look at her face. “Why me?” 

“I want someone nice,” Julia says. “Someone who knows what he’s doing. You do, don’t you?”

“Sure. But there are plenty of blokes in London who can say that. Don’t you have a boyfriend, Julia? I can’t believe you’re alone.”

“I am,” she says. “On my birthday, John. Isn’t that sad?”

“Tragic,” he whispers, and kisses her. 

John hasn’t had a woman in months. And the last time he did have a woman, it wasn’t one like her. Perhaps this is exactly what he needs to clear the grey fog in his brain. An easy tumble with a beautiful girl: saucy Julia Siviter, with her filmy knickers and fuck-me heels. John is more than happy to give her a birthday orgasm. Possibly two or three. 

When he kisses her, she flinches at first, as if surprised that he actually took her up on her offer. But soon enough she opens her mouth, letting him in. She tastes like the orange juice, a little bitter and a little sweet. For a few minutes he just kisses her, and kissing is nice, but eventually he starts exploring. He kisses the curve of her throat while a hand roams over other, softer curves below. He’s sure her brassiere is quite expensive, but it really isn’t up to the task of containing her; one practiced twist of his hand and her breasts are free, warm and heavy against his chest. She squeaks as his thumb brushes over her right nipple. He can feel her trembling in his arms, but she doesn’t pull away. Instead she lets him walk her backwards towards the bed. She lets him fall onto it, taking her with him. He hears twin thunks as she kicks her shoes off.

He has better access to her breasts now, and he takes full advantage. He sucks a plump nipple into his mouth and she gasps. 

“Like that, do you?” he says. 

“Oh yes,” she breathes, so he does the same to the other. When he tests that sweet rosy flesh, biting harder, she shudders under him, nails digging into his hips.

“Sorry,” he says. “Bit rough. Or is that your style, love?”

“Um, no?” she says, blinking up at him. “You promised to be nice.”

“I didn’t. But I can be.” He starts licking his way down her body. 

“Oh Jesus,” she whispers, throwing an arm over her eyes. John takes this as tacit permission and keeps exploring. Julia is a lavishly proportioned girl so it takes a little while, and he enjoys every moment. Finally he makes his way to her left hip. He gets the edge of her knickers in his teeth and starts pulling them down. He feels her go a bit tense. But she doesn’t say a word, so he doesn’t stop. He pulls the fragile, impractical bit of fabric down, down, until he’s tossing it to the floor. Then he kneels on the bed. He pauses a moment to enjoy the view of Julia totally naked.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs.

“Do you think so?” She’s meeting his eyes but she’s blushing furiously. A very cute reaction, if rather unexpected.

“Of course,” he says. “I’m sure lots of blokes have told you that.”

“Yes—plenty. It’s still nice to hear.” She looks at him solemnly. “Are you going to undress?”

He leans close, kissing her neck. “Why don’t you help me?” he whispers. He feels her nod.

“All right. I can do that.” He feels her fingers at his waist. Slowly, you might say tentatively, she pulls the trackpants over his hips. Her brow creases when they reach his knees, but he helps her then, getting the imprisoning fabric entirely down and off. 

“Much better,” he says. But Julia’s attention is elsewhere. She’s looking at his cock. Her eyes are wider than he’s ever seen them as they take in the needy, swollen flesh.

(Is this when he began to suspect the truth? Probably. But he couldn’t process it yet. It seemed so bloody impossible. Christ, _look at her._ )

“You did that to me,” he says. “Proud of yourself?”

She seems to consider the matter. “Yes,” she says. “I suppose I am.” 

She sits up on one elbow. She reaches out, running a finger down his cock. She smiles as it strains towards her. She takes it fully in one hand. She gives a long, slow pull, then another. Her hand is warm and her grip is firm and John groans a little. “All right, enough of that,” he says, after her third tug. “If you don’t want to be suddenly disappointed.”

“It’s strange, isn’t it?” she says. “Sex. When you think about it, a rather silly thing to do.”

“Better silly than lonely. Lots of things in life are silly. But they don’t feel this bloody good.”

“Yes.” Julia sounds strangely determined. “You’re right, of course. Let’s do it now.”

“I appreciate your enthusiasm, but slow down, yeah? We’ve got hours.” 

“I don’t see why we should wait. I can’t think of anything else—” Julia stops as he bends his head, licking the crease of her thigh. “John—”

“Shh,” he says. “Lie back. I’ll let you do some of the work later on.” 

“You don’t have to— _bloody fucking hell!”_ Julia shudders as he takes her clit between his teeth. 

He wasn’t always good at this. But John had the good fortune to acquire a forthright and rather demanding girlfriend during his third year at uni, who taught him everything he needed to know about licking pussy. First of all, that there is more than licking involved—sucking, nuzzling, a bit of judicious nibbling. It helps if you can enjoy it, as John does. Nothing gets you closer to the essential truth of a woman than this. 

Julia tastes as good as she looks, the clean lemon-vanilla of feminine arousal, hot and silky-wet. She is tense at first but as he goes on she melts, her thighs falling open quite shamelessly. Until the very end, when she stiffens once again, gasping words that a girl of her upbringing shouldn’t know. He can feel her inner muscles start to contract, and he redoubles his efforts. Soon she’s crying out, pulling his hair, and then, at last, going beautifully limp. 

He crawls up her body. He kisses the damp hollow between her breasts. “Happy Birthday.”

Julia is silent a moment, her chest heaving as she stares at the ceiling. Then she gives a gasping laugh. “I should have put it on my Amazon list,” she says. “Years and years ago.”

“Shipping might be a bit expensive.”

“Sod it. I have a Prime membership.”

She kisses him this time, her mouth hungry under his. Then she breaks it, looking down at his still-swollen cock. “I suppose we should do something about that.”

“I am open to suggestion.”

Julia reaches down, grasping him in her hand. She whispers in his ear. “Fuck me. I’m ready.”

John doesn’t have to be told twice. He reaches up, pulling open the drawer of the bedside table. He fumbles around a moment before finding what he needs. He hasn’t had sex since he’s been at Harry’s, but it’s a long-established habit with him, keeping condoms by the bed. A lucky habit: Lovely as Julia might be, John couldn’t take the chance of getting something from her. Or giving her something in return, namely a screaming bundle of Watson.

He tears open the wrapping of the condom and slips it on. He lies beside her on the bed. He strokes her face gently. She smiles at him, lips trembling. Her eyes are rather red.

“Hey. You okay?” he says.

“Sure. It’s just—it’s been a weird day.”

“And it’s barely lunchtime.”

He kisses her, soft and deep, while he palms one lovely breast in his hand. Then he reaches down, feeling between her thighs. He knows she’s more than ready but he always enjoys it, exploring new territories. He teases her clit with his thumb, two other fingers going deeper inside. She’s very wet but strangely tense. Tight.

“Relax,” he whispers. “I’ll be nice. No surprises.” 

She gives a nervous giggle at this, burying her face in the curve of his neck. And something about that—the _girlishness_ of it—gives him pause. His cock is begging to be inside her right now, but he ignores it. He uses his hand instead, exploring deeper. That’s when he realizes.

Slick and tight, her inner muscles contract around his fingers. They’re too tight. She’s so tense. Even for the first time with a new partner. 

Suddenly, all her odd reactions coalesce inside his head.

_Oh fuck me._

He pulls his hand away. He sits up. “You’re a virgin.”

“Surprise?” she says weakly.

Without another word, John gets up, grabs his trackpants, and runs across the hall to the bath.

“Hey! Where are you—” she’s cut off as John slams the door, locking it.

He snaps the condom off and shoves the shower taps on. He barely waits for the water to get lukewarm before he stands under the stream, picking up the bottle of liquid soap.

John was so close to ready that it doesn’t take more than a few well-timed strokes to finish him. The orgasm is quick and muted, more a relief than a climax. When it’s done, he scrubs up fast and turns the water off. A pass with a towel, and he puts his pants on. He grabs his dressing gown from the hook on the door, wrapping it around him. Then he closes his eyes a moment. Only when he’s sure that he’s calm, flaccid and fully covered does he go back to the bedroom.

Julia is sitting upright on the bed. She’s put her lingerie and coat on, but not her shoes. Her gaze lingers in the vicinity of his crotch. Then she looks up, eyes narrow.

“Did you just—”

“Yes.”

Her lip curls. “Ew. Why?” 

“Because I didn’t want to fuck you and then strangle you. After that little performance, a real possibility.” He leans against the walnut chest, arms crossed. “God, I should have known that something was off. Girls like you don’t just show up in the middle of the day begging for sex. What the fuck are you doing?”

“I don’t know why you’re making such a fuss about this. So what if I’m a virgin?”

“If it’s no big deal, why didn’t you say?”

Julia raises her chin. Still the princess, even rumpled and half-ravished. “Not your business.” 

“Newsflash, darling: When a man is about to put his cock inside you, it _is_ his business.”

Julia looks away, blushing painfully. John would feel sorry for her, but he’s short on empathy at present. “How did this even happen, anyway? You’re bloody gorgeous. I can’t believe no chap has ever tried to have his way with you.”

“I did have a boyfriend at uni,” Julia says. “Dmitri Abramovich. He was sweet.”

“What happened?”

She rakes her hands through her hair. “Daddy had him deported.”

_“What?”_

“You do know who my father is, right? Julius Siviter. They call him the Wolf. Once he gets his teeth in something, he doesn’t let go. Dmitri got off easy.” She sighs. “Most of the men I meet are aware of his reputation. They’re too terrified to touch my hand, much less anything else.”

John pinches the bridge of his nose. “Lovely. And it never occurred to you what Daddy might do to me, once he discovered I’d deflowered his precious girl?”

“I’m not a monster, John. Daddy and Mycroft are gone on business. Athens, to be precise, still trying to clean up this Eurozone mess. Neither of them would know.” Julia looks down, saying, “Not that Mycroft pays attention, anyway.”

“What does he have to do with this?”

When Julia says nothing, just keeps looking at her hands, John sighs. “Sherlock was right. You are in love with his brother. Bloody hell.”

Julia’s chin jerks up. “Sherlock? How did he—” she stops, shaking her head. “Doesn’t matter. All these years, I’m sure I’ve betrayed myself. Mycroft must know. He just doesn’t care. I used to think he might, but not now.”

“Mycroft? Care? Are you serious?”

“He used to notice me. Not in a prurient way, but—” She twists her belt nervously. “He’s not a robot. He’s just calm and strong. He can be a bit scary, but never with me.”

“Yeah,” John mutters, “no daddy issues there.” When Julia scowls at him, he shrugs and says: “Maybe he is nice to you. He’s known you since you were in the cradle. But that doesn’t mean he feels anything. If he has emotions, I’ve never seen any evidence.”

She regards him sadly. “I know you think Sherlock’s death didn’t matter to him. I heard what happened at the solicitor’s. But you’re wrong. Since June, it’s like Mycroft is—not there. Nobody else sees the difference in him. But I can.” 

Her voice grows quiet. “His attention is a marvelous thing. The way he can look at you, the _weight_ of it, I can’t describe . . . ” she falls silent. There is real pain in her face.

“Like you are the only thing in the world,” John says. “The one thing that matters.”

“Yes,” Julia says slowly. “That’s exactly it. And when it’s gone, it’s so hard. All that warmth, all that brightness, lost.”

John doesn’t answer. He has to turn away a moment. He’d like to flee the bedroom, but he’s not that cowardly. He clenches his hands and gathers himself. 

“It’s ironic,” she goes on. “I think he’s the one man my father might approve of. Even if Daddy didn’t—Mycroft is what I want. I’ve waited for him a long time. But I’m tired of waiting, John. I’m tired of being cold.”

He has to speak then. “You think shagging me is the cure? If you’re that far gone, a few orgasms won’t make you forget him.”

“Then what am I supposed to do?” 

“Christ, woman! You see him 12 sodding hours a day. Kiss him already. Show up at his house wearing nothing but a coat and see-through knickers. I guarantee that will get a reaction.”

Julia looks horrified. “Are you mad? I can’t just—what if he—”

“If Mycroft has a spark of heterosexuality about him—and thank you so much for making me picture his sex life—he will. Knowing him, your virginity would be a total turn-on. The man lives like it’s bloody 1890 most of the time.”

“I’m not really a virgin now,” Julia says, blushing again. “I mean, we did just—”

“Oral sex doesn’t count. Some people would disagree with me on that point, but I think you can still consider yourself pure as the driven snow. Pure enough to please _him,_ anyway.”

Julia looks thoughtful. “You can’t blame him for being conservative. After the mother he had.”

“What about his mum?” John says, interested. Sherlock never talked about his mother. She died when he was a baby, that’s all John knows.

“She was notorious. Daddy has told me stories about her—” she stops. “Mycroft doesn’t date, do you know that? Not at all. That ring he wears on his right hand, it’s his father’s signet ring. He’s literally married to his work. That’s what frightens me. What if I tell him, and he does say no? He’s not just a friend. The work we do together is important. I could lose everything.”

“I know,” he says, after a moment. “But do you really want to go on like this?” 

He sits on the bed. He puts a hand on her wrist. “Maybe he doesn’t realize. The Holmes boys can be thick about that kind of thing. Maybe he’s waiting for you to make the first move. Even if he’s not, it would be better to know if he never loved you. At least then you could move on, salvage something from the wreckage. It sounds bleak, but the alternative is so much worse.”

“What’s that?” she whispers.

“Never knowing. Spending the rest of your life asking a question with no answer. I wouldn’t wish that on you, Julia. You seem like a nice girl, daddy issues aside. You don’t deserve it.”

Julia is silent a minute. She looks at him, her head tilted slightly to one side. Her face is calm, but he can see the wheels working inside her mind. It must be a fine mind, as cool and regular as clockwork. Beauty and brains in one package, enough to infatuate any man. Once upon a time, she could have infatuated him. But not now. She’s lovely, she warms his loins, but deep down he doesn’t feel it. He doesn’t feel anything since June. A few orgasms with her wouldn’t have changed that. Nothing will lift the grey fog; he knows it now. 

“I’m sorry, John,” Julia says, squeezing his hand. “I really am.” The look she gives him is so sad and sympathetic, he realizes that she’s not just talking about her botched seduction. It guts him, her pity. He can’t stand it. He has to take his hand from hers. Pull back, blinking hard.

“You’re the one I feel sorry for,” he says, trying to recover. “Mycroft fucking Holmes! Dear God, woman. I’ve known androids with more affect.”

“He’s reserved, it’s true.” Julia smiles brilliantly. “But you should hear him play Ravel.” 

She gets up from the bed, buttoning her coat. She ties the belt and steps into her slingbacks. Except for slightly mussed hair and a lack of lipstick, you’d never know she’d been rolling around naked a few minutes before. 

“I should go,” she says. “Daddy has been texting me, no doubt.” 

“Is that who you’re always on with?”

“Who else? I don’t have many mates. Not even a sister, though I would have liked one.”

Julia heads to the door, and John follows her. She’s on the stoop, about to head down, when she stops. She turns to him with an uncertain expression.

“Perhaps I shouldn’t say this. It’s not my business, but—” she pauses, biting her lip. Then she shrugs and continues. “Daddy asked Mycroft why he wouldn’t contest Sherlock’s will. I heard them talking about it after supper one night, when they thought I was watching _Downton Abbey._ Shall I tell you what Mycroft said?”

“If you must.”

“Mycroft said, ‘My brother loved John Watson, Jools. I’d as soon interfere with a husband’s legacy to his beloved wife.’” 

John feels his throat close up. His eyes are suddenly burning, but he doesn’t blink. He just stares.

“I know that doesn’t prove anything beyond a doubt,” Julia says. “But if anybody were to know what a Holmes really felt, it would be another Holmes. Don’t you think?”

She leans forward and kisses his cheek. He can smell her perfume again, sweet and smoldering.

“You’re a good man, John Watson. I hope things get better for you. I really do.” 

She turns and strides down the steps. She stops at the bottom, scraping a red sole over the tiles. “African slate. Brilliant choice.” 

He watches her until she climbs into her black BMW and pulls out of the drive. Then he turns and goes back into the house. 

For a moment he leans his head against the closed front door, getting himself under control. He won’t cry. If life has taught him anything, it’s that tears don’t change a fucking thing.

He heads upstairs to the master bathroom. He finds a prescription bottle with Clara’s name on it. He shakes out two Ambien, crunching the tablets to make them work faster. 

He goes downstairs and lies on his bed. He doesn’t have to look at the ceiling for long before the grey fog takes him. For once, it’s a relief.


	23. Chapter 23

** John, 2012 (cont.) **

He wakes to a voice calling his name, a hand vigorously shaking him. It’s a struggle to come to consciousness at first, like swimming to the surface from the bottom of a very deep pool. When he finally opens his eyes, he sees his sister’s worried face looming.

“Fucking hell. I was about to call 999.”

He scowls up at her. “I was sleeping.”

“Passed out is more like it. Clara found the Ambien bottle open on the counter. You need to be more careful. Remember Heath Ledger?”

“Vaguely.” John wriggles to a sitting position. “What time is it?”

“Nearly eight. We picked up a curry if you’re hungry. Clara’s fixing apple crumble for after.”

John shakes his head. Harry’s lips purse. She twists around and picks up a cup from the bedside table. She shoves it into his hands, and he sees that it’s full of black coffee.

“Drink this at least. You look like hammered shit.”

“Do not,” John says, blowing on the hot liquid. “All the ladies wanna have a go.”

“Yeah. What a snatch magnet you are.” 

“There was one here today. Gorgeous piece in naughty undies. Gagging for it.”

“You were hallucinating, weren’t you? Fucking Ambien.” Harry gets up, leaning against the walnut chest with her arms crossed. But as she watches John dutifully drink coffee, her brow unknits a bit. “Aren’t you going to ask how it went?” 

John blinks at her, and Harry widens her eyes at him.

“Oh. Right,” he says. “How was the appointment?”

“Smashing. They have these binders. Page after page of top-quality jizz. Did you know you have to put in a special request if you want a ginger bloke? Almost nobody does.”

“Prejudiced,” John says, and takes another swallow of coffee.

“No short blokes, either. Sorry, love.”

“There go my career plans.” 

Harry grins at him, and some of the tension leaves the room. 

“So, did you make a choice?” he asks.

“I thought Clara would go for the biracial writer. Makes sense, I thought. But she didn’t. She liked another one: six-two, blond and hazel, mathematician. Oxford-educated, though that means fuck-all. Lots of inferior specimens there, trust me on that.” 

“What about you? Any front-runners in your humble opinion?”

Harry shrugs. “I dunno. Still be raising a cuckoo bird, won’t I?”

John peers at her over his cup. “Harriet—”

“It’s the truth, isn’t it? Doesn’t matter how many bloody geniuses the sperm bank has in stock, none of them are related to me. The baby will belong to some egghead from Magdalen College.”

“And Clara. Your life partner.” 

Harry musses her short locks until they stick straight up. “Right,” she sighs. “That’s true.”

“Have you talked to her about this?” When his sister just looks down: “Why the hell not?”

“Didn’t know it was an issue,” she says. “Not until today.” She raises her head, chin stuck out defiantly. “Fuck it, John. It’s just not fair. Our friends Amy and Olivia—you know, from the college? They have two little girls. They used the same sperm donor, and Amy and Liv each carried a baby. Everybody in their family is all cozy and related. I don’t have that option, do I?”

“I know,” John says. “I’m sorry.” Harry hasn’t had that option in a long time, not since her hysterectomy. One iffy ultrasound, and she got rid of the lot. When your mum, grandmum, and aunt died of ovarian cancer, it’s a logical precaution. But logic is cold comfort at a time like this.

They are both quiet a moment. Finally, Harry gives a forced laugh. “Never mind. Don’t need to pass on these sodding Watson genes anyway.”

“I’ve never felt the urge.” John pauses, swirling his coffee cup thoughtfully. “I’m sure once the baby is here, it will feel like it’s yours. I’ve heard that’s how it happens.”

“Maybe,” Harry says, brow wrinkled. Then her face clears. “Shit! That reminds me. I need to e-mail Amy. She and Liv are in NYC for a conference; she wanted me to let her know about the appointment. Can I use your computer? Mine was acting all knackered earlier. First the Range Rover, now the MacBook. Swear to Christ we’ve got gremlins.”

“Be my guest.” 

As Harry heads for the hall, John finishes his coffee. Less fuzzy now, he gets off the bed. Though it’s suppertime, he should try getting dressed today. 

He’s slipped into jeans and socks and is buttoning his shirt when he hears a piercing screech coming from the office. Harry hasn’t made a sound like that since Michael Owen scored those late goals against Arsenal back in ’01. He darts next door.

“Jesus. What’s the—” He stops when he sees what Harry is looking at on his laptop. John stands frozen as she bounces up from the desk. She shoves him so hard he nearly falls over.

_“You piece of shit.”_

“Harry, goddamn it. Calm down.”

“Fuck you! Doctors Without Borders? Getting shot once wasn’t enough for you?”

“It’s just an option I’m exploring.”

“Option? Options are Oxford or Cambridge. Blackpool or Brighton. Paper or sodding plastic. This is not an option. This is fucking suicide.”

John rolls his eyes. “Here we go with the melodrama. And you wonder why I hesitated about moving in here.”

“I don’t believe this,” Harry says. “I really don’t. I read the damn blog. Between the Army and your detecting career, do you realize how many times you’ve almost died in the last decade? You call me melodramatic? You self-destructive asshole.” 

She begins to pace. “When I saw the news reports about Sherlock, the first thing I thought was, ‘Dear God, what about my brother?’ After you called, I almost vomited, I was so relieved. I’ve spent months cleaning up your godawful mess. This is my thanks? Christ, John. Don’t you—don’t you care about me at all?” Her voice breaks, and John’s heart twists. 

“I do care,” he says softly. “I’m not trying to make your life harder.”

She swipes at her teary eyes. “Then what are you trying to do?”

“Just—go. I have to. I can’t stay here any longer. Not after what happened.”

“Is this about the clinic yesterday? I’ll sort it. One phone call, and that fucker will shrivel up and blow away. They always do.”

“You can’t sort the whole world. You shouldn’t have to. It will be easier for you if I’m gone.”

She shakes her head vigorously. “No. Don’t pretend you’re doing me a favor. Clara and I are trying to expand this family, and you want to decrease it by one. Permanently.”

“Lots of people join Doctors Without Borders. They come back fine.”

“You won’t. It’s the RAMC all over again. But this time it won’t be your shoulder. It will be your head or your heart. You don’t care, do you? Fuck me! You’ve always been reckless, but since Sherlock—” 

Harry stops, her face twisting in a mirthless smile. “Wait. What am I worried about? You’ll never pass the psych screening.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“Have you looked in a mirror lately? I wasn’t taking the piss when I said you look like shit. You’ve dropped more than a stone since Sherlock died, and no bloody wonder. You don’t eat, you hardly sleep. You go whole days when you don’t say ten words, do you realize that? You have these rage-outs. That reporter was lucky to get off with a busted nose, wasn’t he? 

“I don’t know how you survived at the clinic as long as you did. I was so happy when you told me you were quitting. I thought now we could get you some real help. Not that useless Army shrink, something intensive and long-term: You can afford it. You need it, John. You really do.” 

He blinks at her, speechless. Harry’s face softens. She squeezes his hand.

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of. What happened to you was horrible. If Clara died like that, there wouldn’t be a whiskey bottle big enough for me.”

He jerks his hand back. “Sherlock and I weren’t lovers.”

“I know how well you keep shit on the down low, big brother. But my gaydar is just ducky.”

“The down low? You and Clara been watching _The Wire_ again?”

Harry peers at him. “Like I said, you’ve got quite a poker face. But Sherlock wasn’t so hard to read. The way he used to look at you! Remember mine and Clara’s recommitment ceremony? Sherlock got anxious when you went to the loo. Like he was marooned among Martians and you were his only guide. When that cousin of Clara’s started monopolizing you, I thought there was going to be murder done. We are talking primal jealousy. I was half-expecting him to do you on the carpet in front of everybody, just to reassert ownership. So don’t tell me you two weren’t—”

She stops as John turns away, a hand pressed to his middle.

For a minute the room is very silent.

“I’ll be damned,” Harry whispers. “You weren’t lovers.”

She puts a hand on his shoulder. “Oh my poor baby—”

He twists away. Runs out of the office, back to his bedroom. He jerks open the wardrobe, pulling out his coat and shoes. He’s in them by the time Harry shows up in the doorway.

“Where are you going?”

“Anywhere but here.”

“John, stop it. We can talk about this.”

“Talk about what? That Sherlock was in love with me? What the fuck does it matter? He’s dead, Harry. Do you understand? Gone forever. Those fucking jackals ripped him to pieces. They danced on his grave, and I had to watch. I couldn’t do anything. I couldn’t—” John cuts off. He can feel them building, the tears he’s been holding back all these months. A tidal wave of rage and grief. He must keep it back. He’ll drown if he doesn’t. Never see the surface again.

He brushes past his sister, heading for the front door. Clara is in the lounge near the kitchen archway. Her lovely face creases in a smile, coppery skin glowing. She holds up a pie dish.

“Who wants crumble?” she sings.

“Oh God,” John says, and sprints for the exit.

He hears them both calling after him as he slams the front door, Clara’s gentle voice blending with Harry’s strident one. But soon enough he leaves them behind, walking down the road in no particular direction. He walks past neat, well-lit houses. He catches glimpses of families inside, commercial-perfect clusters of mummies and daddies and kids. The scenes don’t call to him in any way; they don’t evoke his own experience at all. He flinches from them as you do from the sight of something alien and threatening. 

Hornchurch isn’t so big that you can walk aimlessly forever. Eventually he makes it to what must have been his real destination all along: the tube station. He has his wallet with his Oyster Card in his coat pocket. A train is just pulling in, and he climbs aboard. He needs to be back in London, real London. He longs for it like a lover he hasn’t seen in weeks. It’s a long ride from here to Monument, but he doesn’t care. He has to get away from the suburbs.

In the carriage with him is a group of teenage boys. Fairly well-behaved ones—just the usual electric restlessness of those under 20. John’s eye is particularly drawn to two of the boys. They are sitting side-by-side, grinning at the rowdier antics of their mates. There is nothing obvious in their body language, nothing that would clearly mark them out as different. But John knows what they are within a minute.

 _Lovers,_ he thinks. _Recent vintage. It’s still so new and exciting. They’re counting the minutes until they can make their excuses, head off by themselves. They’ll find a nice, quiet bit of park, or maybe somebody’s parents aren’t home. Even if Mum and Dad are, they won’t suspect a thing. Not like the lad is upstairs with a girl, is it? They’ll be left alone as long as they want._

He can see it like he’s back there. Toby Gregson’s room, with its big bed and pretentious posters. The time John spent there, just a laugh, just a fuck, nothing serious. Who knew that it could have such far-reaching consequences? Toby made Mark a possibility, and Mark made Afghanistan a necessity. Afghanistan, where John met Sonny, who taught him to make the difficult shots. One saved Sherlock’s life that very first night. Maybe it would’ve been better if John hadn’t made the shot. If he hadn’t, Sherlock wouldn’t have suffered like he did. John wouldn’t be suffering now. 

_Bullshit,_ a voice says inside him. _Would you really give up those months together? Twenty-nine of them, John. The best of your life. Would you let them go if you could?_

No. He wouldn’t. But he would do a couple of things differently. The first would be to shoot Moriarty in the head at the fucking swimming pool. The second—well, that’s obvious, isn’t it? 

The train stops at Monument. The kids file past him, shouting, pushing, taking the piss. Those two boys—not touching, though the space between them is charged like lightning—get off last. As they go, John reads the back of the shirt the short one is wearing. It’s a Hornchurch Football League shirt with a big red crest. Below the crest is the team motto: _A Good Name Endureth._

His gaze follows the boys as they walk through the station. Together, not touching in such an achingly intimate way. _Careful,_ lads, he thinks. _A good name is bloody hard to hold on to._

It’s not until John is switching cars at Embankment that he realizes where he’s been heading. He lets his feet take him there once he leaves the tube and re-emerges at Warren Street. It’s a mile walk to get where he’s going, and a strange feeling is in his chest as he draws near—half-excited, half-sick. He’s not sure he can stand this. But right now, he can’t stand being anywhere else. 

When he passes the first sign, BAKER STREET W1 CITY OF WESTMINSTER, it feels as if his heart will burst from his chest. But he keeps walking. Until he’s passing familiar brick rowhouses, the Volunteer Pub, more houses, and then—

The red awning of Speedy’s. Beside it are two worn sandstone steps and a black door. 221-B. 

The door has been freshly painted. There was some nasty graffiti left there the first few days, as well as other, less hostile memorials. Candles, stuffed animals, letters and the like. A few pairs of knickers. The love of fangirls can be a beautiful and terrifying thing. 

There was one break-in. A couple of young toughs looking for treasures to sell on eBay. They were found in the street outside, beaten so badly they’re probably still pissing through catheters. John didn’t do it, and it certainly wasn’t the police. Who could have been watching with such close and lethal focus? Perhaps Mycroft does feel something about his brother’s death, though _caring_ doesn’t seem quite the word for it.

John stops in front of the door. His keys were in his coat, along with his phone and wallet. He can go in any time he likes. His fingers are clenched around the front door key, but he can’t quite bring himself to lift it from his pocket and put it in the lock. 

He stands there a moment, staring at the door, breathing a little too hard. Finally he sits down on the top step. He watches people walking by, not one of them sparing him a glance. There are no reporters now, no fangirls with stuffed bears and lacy undies. Three months, and it’s as if the whole thing never existed, as if Sherlock didn’t. John is all that remains, his grief and regret. 

He should have been more vigilant. He should have worked harder. After all, he was warned.

John is looking down at the phone in his hand before he can quite understand how it got there.

He draws his fingers over the screen, bringing up a number. It hasn’t been used in a long time, but it’s still there. He thought about deleting it, but he never did. Perhaps he always knew he’d be sitting here eventually, needing desperately to reach out. Break the silence.

 **I’m at Baker Street.**

He pauses. What do you say after three months? How can he ever explain his feelings in 160 characters? Ten times that would not be enough. 

In the end, all he can do is tell the truth, as brief and pitiful as it sounds.

 **I’ve been thinking about you. I hope you’re well. –J**

He hits SEND before he can lose courage and delete the message. For some reason this also gives him the heart to rise, take the key from his pocket, and open the door.

The stairwell is dark and smells musty from disuse. But he doesn’t bother turning on a light. He doesn’t want to draw attention, and he doesn’t need the illumination. He knows the way so well that he could do it blindfolded. He almost wishes he were; there’s enough light from the transom to make out the worn grasscloth, the well-treaded steps. The sight of them makes his heart twist, his stomach roil. But he keeps going until the grasscloth gives way to faded palms. Until he sees the black bookcase, right where it’s always been. Until he’s home again.

He does turn on a light now. He needs to see this. The apartment is very dusty, and it has the rather forlorn feel of any unoccupied home. But everything is mostly as it should be. He only sees a few items missing—Mycroft’s mementos, no doubt. (Of course he took _Mansfield Park._ )

John stands there for a long time, looking. It should be more different. It makes him angry that the music stand is still there. (Though not the violin—Mycroft again?) The Union Jack pillow shouldn’t be in the easy chair, nor the antique fan in the corner. These material things shouldn’t persevere. Even the stuffed bat on the mantelpiece offends him: It still has substance of a kind. It’s not fair that it remains and Sherlock does not. Nothing left of him but ashes in the ground. All his beauty and all his genius, gone. 

Slowly, John walks to his easy chair. He sits down in it, the springs creaking as they always do. It shouldn’t feel so familiar. Not when the empty chair in front of him seems so alien, so wrong. Sherlock’s chair; he should be sitting in it. Arranging his dressing gown around him, its folds falling in perfect, regal order. Steepling his hands, his grey eyes fixed on John with that peculiar mixture of condescension and affection. _You’re a fool,_ they seemed to say. _But you’re my fool._

 _Was I yours, Sherlock?_ John thinks. _Why didn’t you tell me? Were you as scared as I was?_

It seems impossible. Sherlock was never scared. It took all the drugs at Baskerville to make him so. On the roof, he met his end like a king kneeling on the block. Calm, noble, eyes wide open.

Perhaps he always knew it was coming. That’s why there are so many skulls here. John never really noticed that until today, but now he can’t stop looking at them. The cow skull between the windows. The leering print hung over the sofa. The bird skeleton in the glass cloche, with its pointy beak. And, of course, the one on the mantelpiece. A real human skull: John was a little shocked when he first realized what it was. _Over a hundred years old,_ he was told. _A birthday gift from Mycroft, it’s only polite to display it._

But that was rubbish, of course. When did Sherlock ever worry about his brother’s feelings? He displayed it because he wanted to. Perhaps he wanted a reminder of the truth. The reality we all spend our lives trying to forget.

_Respice post te. Hominem te esse memento. Memento mori._

_Look behind you. Remember that you are but a man. Remember that you will die._

John has never had a hard time remembering. Not since he was 27, after Lucy and after Mark, when he realized that he would never have a normal life. It wasn’t for him; he couldn’t stand it. Better to bury himself in the desert, be useful if he couldn’t be normal. If it meant his life ended early, at least he would have accomplished something before he went. John Watson’s existence would mean something. Not just sloth and despair, the way his father ended.

 _Remember that you will die._ John can do that. But Sherlock’s death—he can’t accept it. All that brightness, lost. Not even a good name to endure. Moriarty took that, too. 

John feels it again, his rage and grief. The dark ocean that’s been boiling within him all these months. He closes his eyes now, he uses every bit of strength he still possesses, trying to fight it. He can’t give into it; He won’t be weak. The way his father was weak after his mother died. 

It’s a battle John is used to fighting. And perhaps he would have won again, sitting alone in the mausoleum of his old life. He would have, if footsteps hadn’t sounded at that exact moment. If _he_ hadn’t burst through the door, a small, vibrating column of angry energy.

“A text message? You fucking asshole. Three months, and that’s all you can—”

He stops. He looks into John’s face. For a few moments, they just stare at each other.

And all of Neville’s anger vanishes. “Oh, John,” he says. “Oh Jesus.” 

He crosses the room. He kneels by John’s chair, his eyes wide and worried. 

“I look that bad?” John whispers.

“Maybe if I didn’t know you, I wouldn’t think so. But I do know you.” Neville puts his hand on John’s face. “I’m so sorry, love. I’m so fucking sorry.”

It shouldn’t affect him, what Neville says. John has been shrugging off pity since he was eight years old. But he’s so tired. He feels the tears coming, and he can’t stop them. He doesn’t have enough strength left. He makes one last try to swallow them back, but then Neville puts his arms around him, he pulls him close. And it’s all over. Sobs take him, deep and painful. He coughs and chokes, like he’s trying to bring up something that won’t come. The agony and the horror. 

“I can’t—” he gasps. “What happened to him—I can’t take it. I can’t—”

“I know,” Neville says, rocking him. 

John can’t speak after that. He just sobs; it seems like it goes on for hours. Neville says more words, low and soothing, but John can’t understand them. Everything’s gone grey, like the fog in his head has taken over the whole world.

When he comes back to himself some time later, they’re both on the carpet between the chairs. Neville is sitting lotus-style, and John is leaning against him. He pulls back a little and sees that the front of Neville’s shirt is entirely wet. No wonder John’s head aches, and he is so thirsty. He can’t have any tears left; he feels parched and spent. But it’s somehow a better feeling. Like the satisfaction of feeling the pus drain from a rotting wound. 

He doesn’t feel good. But he does feel better. His head is clear for the first time since June.

He sits up against the bottom of the easy chair, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. He presses his fingers into his sore eyes, watching the swirling dark for a minute. When he opens them again Neville is right beside him, a tissue in one hand and a glass of scotch in the other.

“Blow,” he says. “Then drink.” John is too drained to do anything but obey. 

When he has tidied himself and emptied half the glass, he rises, sitting on the chair. Neville rises too, taking Sherlock’s seat. John feels a twinge at the substitution, but all he says is, “I’m sorry.”

“The shirt will wash.” Neville pulls the wet fabric away from himself with a faintly rueful face.

“You know what I mean.” 

“Yeah,” he says. “I do.”

John clutches the glass in his hands. “I should have called.”

“Why didn’t you?”

John drains the glass and puts it on the table by the phone. “Because you were right. You saw what would happen a year before it did. I listened, but not hard enough. I couldn’t face it—you.”

“I thought there would just be a sex scandal or something. Moriarty—” Neville shakes his head. “I couldn’t have predicted him. Nobody could. Not even Sherlock and his giant squishy brain. You shouldn’t torture yourself. His death was not your fault.”

“It doesn’t matter. It feels like it is,” John says. “The hardest part isn’t even losing him. If he’d been hit by a bus or gotten cancer, it would have totally gutted me. I’d still have regrets, all sorts of them. But I could survive. What makes this fester is the publicity, having the world think that Sherlock was a liar and a fake. He wasn’t. I lived with him for more than two years. I saw him do what he did on a daily basis. Six impossible things every day, easily. He didn’t fake anything. He was amazing.”

Neville looks exasperated. “Well, damn it. Why don’t you say that?”

John blinks at him. “What?”

“Why do you think my colleagues are hounding you so badly? The _silence,_ John. Every time one of them tries to contact you, that sister of yours threatens to sue them into the Stone Age. What a little pitbull she is! It must make for some very awkward Christmas dinners.”

“Harry has been trying to protect me.”

“I get that. But dignified silence isn’t going to get you anywhere. You want to stop the smear campaign? Give the press a new angle. Throw the jackals some fresh meat.”

John’s whole face twists in disgust. “They don’t deserve it.”

“This isn’t about them. This is about Sherlock. If you want his memory rehabilitated, do the bloody work. All those cases of his, you’re saying they weren’t faked. There must be proof of that in those files of yours. I mean, can’t you talk to your former clients? They must be able to back your story. Even the Met—have they let all the bad guys Sherlock caught out of jail? I bet they haven’t. Which means they must know that he didn’t commit those crimes.” 

Neville leans forward, warming to his subject. “Moriarty’s evil plan looks good on the surface, but it has to be full of flaws. Maybe he was a master, an artist, but he can’t control the whole world. If he is an artist, he’s Monet or Turner. You get up close, and the entire thing falls into chaos. But Sherlock—he did his due diligence, didn’t he? Not Monet but Sargent. Vermeer, maybe: perfect details, perfect realism. Because he _was_ real.”

“You seem to have given this a lot of thought.”

“I’ve had three months to think about it. What I would do if I were you. This is it. You’ve shut down the blog, but you can start it up again.” Neville pauses. “We can use my blog too, if you want. You know it’s not about the page hits—I want to help.”

“I know you do.” John is silent a moment, studying the carpet. “It could work. If nothing else, it will muddy the waters. Mess up Moriarty’s rotten masterpiece.” He sits straighter. There’s a strange feeling in his chest—warm and light. It takes him a moment to realize that it’s hope. 

“Fuck me, Nev. This _could_ work.”

Neville smiles at him. Then his face sobers. “There is one thing. I haven’t really worried about it before. I suppose because I didn’t think you would ever call me again. But it’s something you have to think about. If you get the blog going, you could draw his attention. It might bring him out of whatever hole he’s hidden himself in. That would be dangerous. You know how much.”

John nods. It was the biggest story after Sherlock’s suicide, what happened to Rich Brook. He disappeared the same day Sherlock killed himself. Most of the papers concluded he was dead—possibly at Sherlock’s hands—but a body was never found. It was the one dream that John has allowed himself these last months, tracking down Moriarty and exacting revenge. He brought it up, obliquely, at Sherlock’s interment. (You couldn’t call it a funeral, as there was no service and only three attendees.) Mycroft cut him off with a gaze of such contempt that John can still feel his own flush of embarrassment.

 _“I’ve found no trace,”_ Mycroft said. _“With my resources and superior faculties. What makes you think you’d have any chance? Go back to the clinic. It’s where you can do the most good.”_

John did go back to the clinic, for all the good it did him. Because he knew that Mycroft was right: He can’t play Moriarty’s games. He’s not a genius like the Holmes brothers.

But perhaps that’s where Sherlock got it wrong. Mycroft, too. You mustn’t play with Moriarty. It’s like throwing a ball to a mad dog. What’s the accepted protocol with a rabid animal?

 _One clear shot,_ John thinks. _It’s all I need._ He thinks of the Browning with a heat that goes all through him. Of course he still has it: The gun is in his bedside table, right next to the condoms.

Moriarty will come back. He won’t stand for his work being destroyed. But just because he’s a genius, it doesn’t mean he can’t be killed. You can kill anyone if you don’t care what happens next. John doesn’t: His future died in June. If usefulness is all he has left, he can’t imagine more useful acts than reclaiming Sherlock’s name, then destroying his slanderer. Whatever happens next won’t matter. John will be at peace.

“What are you grinning about?” Neville says, his brow wrinkling. “You look—peculiar.” 

“The future,” John says. “I’m happy about it. I can’t thank you enough. This is perfect.” 

“But Moriarty—”

“We’ll worry about him when the time comes. If it ever does. For right now, let’s think about the blog, okay?” John looks around the room. “I’ll come back here. I was going mad out in the suburbs, and I need all my files. The interviews will go better at Baker Street, anyway. This is the address everyone knows.”

His eye falls affectionately on the antique fan and the stuffed bat. He can like them again. They are also part of his plan. Even the skulls—especially the skulls. He gives the one on the mantelpiece a particularly fond look. The best reminder of what his brand new project is really about. Salvaging Sherlock’s reputation is a major priority, of course. But it’s not the only one.

 _Look behind you. Remember that you are but a man. Remember that you will die._

“John?” Neville says. “Seriously, mate. You’re worrying me. I mean, more than usual.”

John leans forward. He puts his hand on Neville’s face. That sweet, boyish face with its blue eyes, so large and intelligent. Neville is brilliant and world-weary, but there is still something innocent about him. An innocence that John hasn’t possessed in years. Not since he shot three men and slept like a baby afterwards. 

“You’re wonderful, Nev. Don’t worry,” he says. “I’m going to need your help. Lots of help. I’ll pay you for your time. What else am I going to do with Sherlock’s money?” When Neville opens his mouth to protest: “Shut up. Professionals deserve to be paid for the work they do.” 

Jim Moriarty, for instance. The consulting criminal. He’s going to get everything he’s earned. 

John leans back in his favorite chair. He feels the warmth inside, clearing the grey fog in his brain once and for all. A feeling sharper than love, sweeter than lust. Revenge, it’s as good as an orgasm. The only consummation he can hope for now. John grins at the skull on the mantel. 

_Remember, Jim. Look behind you. One day I’m going to be there._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My own personal director's commentary is available! Just read the chapter notes for 21-23. You can find them at my Dreamwidth and Livejournal blogs.
> 
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> [Author Notes at Dreamwidth](http://chase820.dreamwidth.org/310414.html)
> 
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> [Author Notes at Livejournal](http://chase820.livejournal.com/322394.html)
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> Links to other notes can be found at the end of chapters 5, 12, 20, 28, 29, 32, 38, 42, and 47.


	24. Chapter 24

** Sherlock, 2012 **

He turns his collar against the chill December air and redoubles his pace. It’s only twilight but the street is nearly deserted, the usual state of affairs for this time of year. That’s just as well, for the street is so narrow it can barely be called a street at all; in a few places he could stretch out his hands and touch the buildings on either side. He’s been tempted to do so many times, but now he isn’t, too focused on getting what he wants before Zoran disappears into the night. 

Getting what you want usually isn’t difficult here. During the season, when the narrow streets are so crowded you can barely move, there are go-go dancers outside every club in Old Town. Some can be had for a reasonable price, if you can make your wishes understood. (Many of the natives don’t speak English, and good luck with the local lingo, with its seven cases and a syntax as complicated as Russian’s.) If your needs run to other areas, jewelry and designer clothes are cheap, though you have to be wary of knock-offs. Two euros will buy you a steak or a drinkable bottle of wine. A gram of heroin can be had for half that, if you’re willing to risk the draconian penalties. If you’re not, everything from Valium to Viagra is available over the counter. 

But Sherlock’s requirements, as always, are more rarefied. Zoran is the only one who has what he wants. Zoran promised he would have it tonight, but, like many in his trade, he isn’t always to be trusted. Sherlock’s hands clench at the thought of another day without it, and he walks even faster, until he reaches the darkest and narrowest part of the street. He stands in front of a low doorway set into the medieval stone building, flanked on either side by two peeling black shutters. But they are not closed: The lights inside are on. Zoran is here.

“Did you get it?” Sherlock says without preamble, striding into the dim little space.

Zoran, seated on a stool behind the counter, raises his head from his book. At the sight of Sherlock, his wizened face scrunches up even further, bushy grey brows drawing together. 

“What did I say?” he snaps in heavily accented English. 

“You said you would have it today.”

“Well, then. Do you think I lie?”

“You’ve disappointed me before.”

“I don’t control the world. You wouldn’t believe the troubles I have with customs—”

“I don’t care about your troubles. Do you have it?”

Zoran gives a piggish snort and reaches under the counter. When his hand emerges again, it’s holding a small package wrapped in plain brown paper. Sherlock’s hand shoots out, but Zoran jerks the package back before Sherlock’s fingers can so much as graze it.

“Uh-uh. Not yours yet.” He extends his free hand, its calloused palm up, expectant.

Sherlock sighs and reaches in his pocket. But when he puts the bills in Zoran’s hand, the old man shakes his head. “Three hundred.”

“That’s twice the agreed-upon price.”

“I told you, terrible problems with customs. Not cheap, getting what you want so fast. You are too impatient, _Doctor.”_ He pronounces the title like it’s ironic.

“If I say no?”

Zoran shrugs. “I sell the package on. Buyers can always be found for quality merchandise.” He looks proudly around his musty shop with its overstuffed shelves.

“Not this time of year. How many customers have you had this week? Two? Now give me the bloody thing before I go to bloody Amazon.”

At that, Zoran mutters a vicious oath in Greek and shoves the package at Sherlock. He snatches it up before the bookseller can change his mind. He rips off the butcher paper, feeling his breath catch at the sight of his prize, so longed-for and so long-delayed:

 _Illyrian Piracy, the Ancient Endemic: 230-219 BC._ Weeks since he found that maddeningly vague footnote in Maurice Holleaux’s article, and no way of confirming what Henry Dell is asserting about the importance of the Illyrian Wars in late 3rd Century Greco-Roman relations. Sherlock suspects that Dell is relying too heavily on Polybius’ contemporary account, which is almost certainly biased in favor of the Romans. But he can’t properly quarrel with Dell until he knows exactly what Dell wrote, and Sherlock isn’t going to trust the Frenchman’s summary. The nearest library copy of Dell is in Rome, and even if Sherlock could get there—which he can’t—he probably couldn’t access it. 

But now Dell is here, to be perused as long and as thoroughly as needed. Sherlock can’t help smiling. He hears Zoran snort again and say something in Serbian. Sherlock doesn’t understand, and it’s probably nasty anyway. He considers saying something nasty back, in Greek or French or one of the other languages they both speak, but he might need Zoran again before the winter is over. Not for the first time, he misses the British Library in London. The world’s knowledge at your fingertips there, no need to wheedle sour Greco-Slavic booksellers.

Yes, Sherlock misses London. For many reasons. But before his mind can wander too far down that pathway (one even darker and twistier than the street outside), Zoran clears his throat loudly.

“It’s five o’clock,” he says, nodding not-so-subtly at the exit. Then, suddenly, his entire expression changes. His black eyes light up, shriveled features stretching into a smile.

“Iris!” he coos. “My angel! It’s been too long.” He comes around the counter, standing in front of the lovely lady in the archway. His squat form bending in a surprisingly suave bow, he picks up her hand and kisses it. His lips linger over her slender white fingers with their scarlet nails.

“Zoran,” she says. “You’re too charming. How is it that there’s no Mrs. Zoran?”

“There has been, my pet. Three of them. But in the end they were not worthy. But _you—”_

“I’m married already,” she says. “Quite happily.”

“A tragedy. But you are young, sweet girl. Too naïve. He is not worthy of you. One day you will grow tired of him, and Zoran will be waiting. I’ll take care of you, and your lovely boy.”

The old man bends over the stroller she has parked just inside the arch. His ink-stained fingers palm a small head full of soft brown curls. The baby stares up at him. “There now, _manari mou,”_ Zoran says. “Don’t you have a smile for me?”

The baby just keeps staring, his big grey eyes as wide as a cat’s. Zoran goes behind the counter again. When he comes back, he’s clutching a small plush bear with a sturdy body and a cheerful expression. “See, Nero? Papa Zoran got this for you. Happy Christmas, eh? Won’t you smile now?” He makes the bear dance in front of the baby’s face. 

Nero continues staring for a second. Then his expression changes, grows fascinated. He reaches out his hands towards the bear. But before he can grasp it, Sherlock steps forward, confiscating the toy. “None of that. We’re teaching him to beware of Greeks bearing gifts.”

“I’m only half-Greek,” Zoran pouts. “And I’m not a stranger.”

“Strange enough,” Sherlock says. He turns to Iris, kissing her perfumed cheek. “Hello, darling. Been waiting long?”

“Long enough,” she says. “It’s getting cold, Tibby. I want to go home. Nero needs a bath.”

“Of course,” he says. “I have the book.” He holds up his prize so she can see.

“At last. There will be peace on Earth, good will towards men.” 

The baby begins to cry, kicking his fat little legs. “I spoke too soon,” she says tiredly.

“He wants the bear,” Zoran says. “Give him what he wants, Tiberius. Or you’ll have no peace.”

Sherlock kneels by the baby. He puts the bear in Nero’s dimpled fist. The baby starts chewing its head, the bear staying cheerful in spite of the imposition. Nero stops masticating long enough to give a gummy grin, his tantrum already forgotten. 

Iris shakes her head. “Like father, like son,” she says, and caresses her boy’s curls. 

Iris and Nero wave goodbye to Zoran, and Sherlock gives him a polite-enough nod, as they leave the shop and head towards the car. It’s parked near the Konoba Stari Grad, a lovely seafood café where they had an early supper before Sherlock skipped dessert to tend to last-minute shopping. 

Five months ago, parking would have been impossible in Old Town, but the crowds have long since deserted Budva for warmer climes. By English standards the weather is not very cold, with temperatures seldom dipping below freezing even on the chilliest nights. But that doesn’t extend the season. By late September the town takes on an empty feel, which only increases as the days wear on. Most of the nightclubs, restaurants, and shops close up, and the luxury vacation villas, astronomically priced during June, July, and August, become cheap. 

Sherlock doesn’t mind the quiet. The less people, the less chance that they will be recognized. Also, the lack of traffic jams, water shortages, and blackouts—real issues during the summer—are advantages to be enjoyed.

Iris— _Irene,_ rather, he can finally call her that now—seems bored since things began to calm down. But then, she’s been here longer than Sherlock has. A whole year longer: She came to Budva directly from Mumbai. Maybe she wouldn’t have remained so long, had she not found a good reason for staying put.

Nero babbles as his mother wheels him down the stone-paved street. His right hand reaches out, pointed little chin raised, like a miniature Roman declaiming imperiously before the Senate. His other hand clutches the bear. Every so often he stops the harangue long enough to give his new friend’s head another good chew. 

“I think he’s teething again,” Irene says. 

“Just hungry, I suspect,” Sherlock replies.

“He can’t be that peckish. He had a saucer of noodles at the restaurant.”

“His appetite is prodigious. If we’re not careful, he’ll be as fat as my brother was at that age.”

“He’s nothing like your brother.” Irene tickles the baby on his plump cheek, and he giggles. “Who’s Mama’s handsome boy?” She rubs at a spot of butter on Nero’s chin.

Nero is quite handsome. He does look like Sherlock’s brother, just not Mycroft. Put Nero’s baby picture next to one of Sherrinford’s, and it would be difficult to tell them apart. It isn’t surprising. When you combine Irene’s crystalline beauty with Sherlock’s less symmetrical features, what follows is a boy who looks like the handsomest of the Holmes brothers. Ford would preen and Mycroft would fret over the resemblance, were they ever to meet their nephew.

 _That’s unlikely,_ Sherlock thinks, a strange feeling in his chest. Certainly not regret—his brothers are terrible—but something heavier. Like looking at a door you used to walk through regularly, one which will never be open again. As shuttered and desolate as the shops in Old Town. 

“Sherlock?” Irene says. “Do you want me to drive?” 

He realizes he’s been standing by the passenger door of the Mercedes for a couple of minutes, staring blankly at its sleek blue bonnet.

“No,” he says. “You had two glasses of wine at the restaurant. Just put Nero in his seat if you will.” Sherlock folds the stroller into the commodious back of the SUV while Irene sets about strapping in Nero securely. Two glasses of wine are a necessary buffer before beginning this frustrating task: The baby hates confinement of any kind, and has already displayed a worrying talent for undoing straps and buckles. But the bear is demanding most of Nero’s concentration tonight, and it’s not many minutes before Irene joins Sherlock in the front seat. He eases the car out of the tight parking space and heads towards Mediteranska Street. 

Budva and its surrounding environs are not very large. Though the villa is outside of the town proper, nestled in the hills above Becici Beach, it’s only a ten-minute drive from Old Town this time of year. The drive is a silent one except for Nero’s occasional squeals. Sherlock’s thoughts are concentrated on the book in his jacket, and sometimes on other, less academic concerns. A few times he can see feel Irene’s gaze upon him, but he ignores it and focuses on the drive. Like many other roads in Montenegro, the way home is narrow, twisty, and treacherously steep.

They pull into the villa’s expansive motor court. Sherlock glances up at the tall pink building, all three stories lit up like they are expecting a crowd. Danica must still be in residence. She seems to take great glee in running up the utility bill as high as it will go. Probably from the mistaken assumption that it’s Sherlock who’s paying it. 

They exit the car to the sound of excited barks. Before Sherlock can even step out of the vehicle, he is accosted by two black monsters, drooling and wagging. 

“Minerva, Diana, sit.”

Two identical floppy-eared heads tilt to one side. Two sets of beady amber eyes stare up at him.

 _“Sit.”_ Sherlock points at the ground for emphasis. The dogs follow the gesture, then stare at him again. He sighs and reaches in his pocket. He shows them the dog biscuits he’s taken to keeping there. This sparks a reaction. Slowly, two big rear ends lower towards the cement.

“Siiit,” he repeats one more time, palming the treats in warning. The Labradors sit at last, just long enough for him to fling them the dog biscuits. Then they are off and running again, Diana taking her biscuit a good 20 feet away. Probably the clearest sign of intelligence he’s seen in the two benighted creatures: Minerva’s appetite rivals Nero’s. She will steal the food from her sister’s mouth, given half a chance.

Irene joins him on that side of the car, holding Nero and smirking. “You bribe them shamefully.”

“It’s the only way they obey,” Sherlock says. “And not very well then.”

“You have to show them who’s boss, that’s all. Dogs respond to a clear hierarchy. It astonishes me that you still can’t grasp that.”

“I don’t care for dogs,” Sherlock says. “After five months, I assume you’ve grasped that?” 

“Yes, the Holmes’ are cat people. It’s too bloody obvious.”

“Now and again. We had a ginger Persian named Walsingham when I was a boy. My father doted on it, though the cat had a difficult disposition.”

“Saying a cat is difficult is like saying it has a long tail. That’s a given.”

Sherlock shrugs at this. He didn’t mind Walsingham really, though the cat was vindictive and once pissed on Sherlock’s pillow after some perceived slight. Give him all the treats you like, you can’t bribe a cat into obedience. Sherlock rather admires that kind of resolve.

“Minnie and Di are good girls,” Irene says. “Very loyal.”

“If you want protection, you should have gotten Dobermans.” 

“I have the Glocks for that. Minnie and Di are for fun. You should have seen them as puppies. The cutest little bitches you ever saw.”

“Your choice of words, not mine,” Sherlock says, and walks towards the house.

The ground floor of the villa is low-ceilinged but large, facing the terrace which runs along the entire front of the building, affording a magnificent view of the sea. The lounge is done all in neutrals, with buff walls and square white furniture, and rather an excess of mirrors. The effect can be blinding in summer, when the sun beats through the huge windows that face the terrace. It’s bright enough now, with every lamp ablaze. Sherlock is passing through quickly, heading upstairs to the relative dimness of his own rooms, when Danica blocks his path.

She scowls at him, arms folded over her impressive bosom. Some would find her attractive, with her thick blonde hair, pouty face, and buxom figure. Sherlock would rather shag Minerva.

“Your creature shit on floor,” she says to him.

“He’s not my creature,” Sherlock says.

“Good. I throw him out, then?”

“You’ll do nothing of the kind. He’s a guest in this house.”

Her round blue eyes have become slits. “He is demon,” she says. More follows in her own tongue, which Sherlock is happy not to understand. 

“Sorry,” he says. “I don’t speak Serbian.”

“Montenegrin,” she snaps. “How many times I tell you?”

“Serbian, Montenegrin, bloody Bosnian. It’s all pidgin Russian in the end.”

 _“I not a Russian!”_ she screeches, hands clenching into fists, but Irene, entering, intervenes.

“Of course you’re not, petal. Tiberius was just making a joke. Weren’t you, Tibby my love?” She widens her eyes at him. Nero, who has been watching the whole exchange, also widens his eyes. At another time Sherlock would find that amusing, but he’s lacking in humor at present. He sighs, however, and gives in.

“Just joking,” he says. “Montenegrin is a beautiful, unique language. Not like Russian at all. Or Serbian, for that matter.” He pauses. “Except for the vocabulary, syntax, and grammar.”

“He make fun of me,” Danica says. She looks at Irene pitifully. 

“I know, Dani-girl. He’s very mean. I don’t know why I put up with him.”

“I don’t know too. After he leave you all those months—”

 _“Right,”_ Irene cuts in. “You can go, Dani. Dr. Wolfe and I can handle things from here. Come back tomorrow. Wait, that’s right, it’s the holiday. I suppose we’ll see you Wednesday.”

“I can come tomorrow. Tuesday too,” Danica says eagerly. “I not mind, Mrs. Wolfe. Truly.” She says something else in Serbian and Irene answers fluidly back, only switching to English halfway through.

“—and your man would have my guts for garters. Go home, petal. We can manage.”

With one more melting look at Irene, and a kissy-face for Nero (she honestly dotes on the baby, Sherlock will credit her that), Danica marches out, round bottom twitching pertly in her tight trousers. Irene views the undulations with a rapt expression. She senses Sherlock’s gaze and colors slightly, then shrugs at him.

“So that’s why you keep her on,” Sherlock says. “I’ve wondered. The girl is a nuisance.”

“I keep her on because she does windows, dearie. Also, she’s quite good with Nero.” Irene bounces her son on one hip. “The two before her were bloody awful. Sorry she doesn’t like you, but she stays.” Irene sits on the sofa, still bouncing the baby, who has begun plucking at her blouse. “You can’t blame her. She thinks you deserted me when I was pregnant.”

“That’s hardly fair. Tiberius Wolfe didn’t exist at the time.” It had been quite prescient, Irene making up the tale of an absent husband before Sherlock ever had need of it. But she had cast her ex in a rather harsh light, which meant even after their supposed reconciliation in July, her loyal housekeeper still regards him with narrowed eyes. But that isn’t the only reason.

“She’s in love with you,” Sherlock points out. “It also affects her attitude.”

“She has a boyfriend.” When Sherlock just raises an eyebrow at her, Irene smirks. “Though he seems disposable enough, I suppose. She is a pretty thing, if you like them plump and blonde.”

“Which you do.”

“I’m a wife and mother,” Irene says, as she begins to unbutton her blouse. 

“But the Wolfes are sophisticates. They have a special understanding.”

“Special is one word for it.” Irene stops what she’s doing, frowning a little. Nero screeches, and she blinks and refocuses on him. She undoes the hook on the cup of her bra, exposing her breast. Irene draws Nero close, and he begins suckling greedily. 

“I’ll be in my rooms,” Sherlock says, turning towards the stairs.

“You could stay,” Irene says. “Talk to me a bit. Nero isn’t very good company at present.” She looks down at the baby, lost to everything but his own appetite. “You could tell me about the new book.”

“I haven’t read it yet.” 

“About the project, then. I know you’ve made all sorts of fascinating discoveries. It’s rather funny: You really will have a book written at this rate. Tibby Wolfe, Professor of Classics at King’s College, comes more and more to life.”

“He’s merely a persona,” Sherlock says. “I have to make the legend detailed, or it won’t be plausible. Mycroft told me that me once. It’s basic spycraft.” He pauses. “But the project is going well. Helleaux seems to think that piracy in the Adriatic was an ancient construct. ‘To sail the Adriatic’ was a common idiom among the Romans for taking any kind of dangerous journey. But I think Helleaux is somewhat overstating the pervasiveness of the attitude—”

“Ouch!” Irene cuts in. She pulls Nero back a bit. “Watch the teeth, mister.”

Sherlock turns away. “You are much occupied,” he says. “We can talk later.”

“Wait. It was just a nibble, Sherlock—” but he’s already heading for the stairs. 

He walks quickly, not stopping until he's ensconced in the privacy of his own rooms. It takes an effort not to lock the door. But just being alone is a comfort, one in short supply since July.

He hadn’t intended to stay in Budva. He isn’t sure why he came here to begin with. But it was his first real destination after London, once he’d done the necessary circumlocutions to put any possible pursuit off his trail. He hadn’t planned to talk to Irene, just see her, to make sure that life after her own phony death (the second one) was working out as planned.

When he saw her on Becici Beach, swathed in a long white caftan, he didn’t realize what had happened. She looked a bit fuller in the face, but that could be due to many things. It wasn’t until he followed her home, eluding the lurking dogs and peering in one of the lounge windows, that he understood. She was in a position very like the one she’s in now, putting a dark-haired infant to her breast. That’s when he knew he’d have to make his presence known. 

She nearly dropped Nero, she was so astonished. She didn’t say a word for almost a minute. Then, suddenly, she burst out laughing. She set Nero in his bouncy cradle and put her arms around Sherlock. Her breasts were fuller, but otherwise she felt just the same. She smelled the same: expensive perfume and her own inimitable scent, headier than any she could buy. For the first time in weeks the storm in Sherlock’s head subsided. He didn’t feel good, but he felt better. 

Even the shock of fatherhood didn’t knock him off-balance. Compared to what he had just been through, it was nothing painful. At times he has trouble believing that he had a part in creating Nero, who is every inch his mother’s son. But Sherlock doesn’t need a DNA test to be certain, the boy’s resemblance to Sherrinford notwithstanding. He remembers that night in Mumbai, all of the precautions they didn’t take. He never even asked: He knows Nero is his. 

But he and Irene as parents—the idea still doesn’t settle right. They get along well enough, but they are hardly the picture of connubial bliss. Unless your picture includes separate bedrooms and Irene eyeing every pretty girl in Budva since she started getting her figure back. Sherlock doesn’t mind. He could even put up with her shagging Danica, if it made the housekeeper less hostile and ensured that his shirts no longer come back with mysterious bleach spots. 

If it would keep Irene from looking disappointed every time he gave her a peck on the cheek and said goodnight, Sherlock could countenance any number of mistresses. He won’t be performing that part of the marital duties. His new persona doesn’t extend so far. Whatever the state of Dr. Wolfe’s libido, Sherlock’s is non-existent. 

So he spends his days buried in books about ancient Balkan pirates. It’s a fascinating subject, enough to divert him for days at a time. When he’s lost in his books, other, darker thoughts stop intruding. He plays with Nero when Irene is otherwise occupied. The baby’s presence is oddly soothing. Nero asks for nothing but bouncing, bottles, and the occasional story, which Sherlock is happy to provide. Sherlock also watches a lot of movies. There’s a theater here, and Irene has an extensive collection of DVD’s. Books, baby, movies: He’s not up for much else. 

Sherlock is better, six months after his death. But he isn’t well. Don’t mistake him for that. 

His ruminations are interrupted by a heavy, kneading touch upon his knee. The new assault is accompanied by a petulant cry, but Sherlock knew who it was before his companion spoke. 

He regards this regal personage, who is made all the more dignified by his formal attire, a dove-grey coat over a snowy shirt and spotless cravat. His long moustaches are whiter than his linen, and as beautifully kept. A striking figure, his brilliant green eyes regarding Sherlock with the serene superiority that’s common to his kind.

“Hello, Faust,” Sherlock says.

The cat twitches his tufted ears. Then he keeps kneading. Sherlock winces as he feels the bite of fourteen claws, but he lets Faust do as he likes. It’s the only way to deal with him.

Sherlock found him four months ago, a bedraggled bundle of grey-and-white nosing around the rubbish bins outside. He was probably left behind by one of the careless summer tourists. How else could a British Longhair make his way to Montenegro? Whatever his origins, Faust became a fixture as soon as Sherlock set down the first bowl of kibble, and the cat has rapidly gained in strength and stateliness. Normally Sherlock is indifferent to animals, but he has a soft spot for refugees these days. As an unexpected bonus, Faust’s presence continually irritates Danica, who considers him a creature of supernatural malice due to his extra toes and prodigious size. Also, his habit of leaving turds and furballs on her freshly mopped floors.

Faust settles himself by Sherlock’s hip. He turns on his back, presenting his fluffy white belly.

Sherlock sighs. “I know what this is. Do you take me for a fool?”

Faust stretches luxuriously, making the tempting plushness of his underside even more apparent. 

“I’m not falling for it. Not again.”

The cat fixes earnest eyes on him. He manages to give the impression that he has no idea what Sherlock is referring to. He crooks his big white paws like the most innocent of woolly lambs.

“Fine. If nothing else will please you.” Sherlock buries his hand in silky fluff. He gets in two good rubs before Faust convulses like a cobra. Claws dig into Sherlock’s arm while his palm is poked by razor-sharp teeth. Faust does not press down, but he has his prey securely trapped. 

“Yes, you’ve caught me. Very clever.”

Green eyes blaze at Sherlock triumphantly.

“My hand is dead. You, Faust the Inexorable, the Irresistible, have killed it. What a magnificent predator you are. Now let go, please.” Sherlock carefully pulls back as Faust gums his knuckles with mock-ferocity. “Let _go._ Or I can’t play for you.” 

Faust may not be a creature of otherworldly abilities, but he understands English very well. (He refuses to respond to Serbian, another point in his favor.) He lets go with the jubilant lick of a conqueror. He rolls from the prone position and arranges himself on the bed, paws folded under his proud white bosom. Now his gaze is expectant. His lush tail twitches with impatience. 

Sherlock gets up and goes to the chest by the bed. He takes the violin out of the top drawer. It’s not the Guarneri, of course. He picked this up for 90 Euros in one of the junk shops in Old Town. The fingerboard is painted wood instead of ebony, the violin’s neck is uncarved and its bridge is too high. But beggars really can’t be choosers.

“Any requests?” he asks Faust. 

When none is forthcoming, he launches into “Danse Macabre.” Sherlock hasn’t played it in years, and he’s not sure why he plays it now. 

It’s not very appropriate to the season, bringing to mind dancing skeletons and happy ghouls rather than tinsel and mistletoe. He and Mycroft played it for Father once, long ago. In the part of Sherlock’s memory palace devoted to Siger, a seldom-visited annex with roses and skulls over the entranceway, the scene still lingers. Sherlock is standing next to the piano where Mycroft is seated. Siger is at the rosewood desk. His face is pleased for once, long fingers waving in time as his two boys, in perfect sync for these few minutes, play Saint-Saëns’ gleeful ode to mortality. Sherlock can see the sheet music for the song very well. But his father’s expression is clearer.

Not a warm scene—there are none of those in Siger’s annex. But it’s warmer than the cold silence that otherwise reigns there. One of the few times when Sherlock enjoyed his father’s approval and attention. Perhaps the old man was softening as he grew older. If he had lived, he and Sherlock might have one day come to an understanding. But Siger’s time was running out, even as his sons performed the Dance of Death for him. He had less than a year.

The poem the song is based on is rather shocking. There’s a lot of sex in it, the happy mortals frolicking in the dewy grass. The king capers with his peasants, the baroness gives herself to the cartwright, while in the distance the skeletons gambol and Death plays his violin. The message is clear: Dance all you like, fuck whom you please, it doesn’t matter. The Reaper is waiting. 

The cheap violin sings a sour note, and Sherlock stops mid-measure. He puts the violin and bow back in the chest and sits on the bed. But it takes Faust patting his face with a paw to bring him back from the shadows of Siger’s annex. He puts his hand on the cat’s head, he rubs gently between his ears. Faust’s eyes close in ecstasy. He’s as easy to please as Nero once you get past the feline contrariness. Sherlock wishes that he himself were so easily satisfied. 

_Just one thing I want,_ he thinks. _I should have taken it when I had the chance. Now it’s too late._

“John,” he whispers. He can barely speak the name. But it haunts all his dreams. 

Sherlock should rest easily in his afterlife. But he is lonelier than he thought he could be, more faithful. Moriarty was more victorious than he ever knew. Actually jumping would have been nothing compared to this. That fall would have been over in seconds. This one goes on and on.


	25. Chapter 25

** Sherlock, 2012 (cont.) **

December 24th is cold and grey, and Sherlock spends most of it in the study which adjoins his bedroom, pillaging Delphi with the Illyrian pirates. He emerges at dusk, bleary-eyed and, for once, hungry. He nips downstairs, making a good meal of the _kaša sa pečurkama_ (mushroom porridge) and the _kuvani brav_ (cold broiled lamb) leftover from yesterday’s luncheon. Danica is a good cook, though Sherlock would enjoy her dishes more if he didn’t suspect her of harboring dark thoughts. But Irene eats the same meals he does, and while the housekeeper would be quite capable of putting hemlock in Sherlock’s porridge, she won’t poison her beloved mistress. 

Sated, he goes back to his own room, ready to return to the 3rd Century. But he finds that Faust has claimed the reading chair, curled into a perfect circle, nose tucked into his tail. He’s such a picture of purring comfort that Sherlock is loath to disturb him. Also, Dell’s book seems to hold no more charms today. He looks at the clock and decides to visit the nursery. He knows Irene won’t mind. In fact she has encouraged it, though he’s reluctant to make it too much of a habit. But this is Christmas, Nero’s first. Sherlock goes upstairs. 

The spare, neutral elegance of the ground floor continues on the upper floors. Sherlock’s own rooms, his bedroom and adjoining study, are a symphony of blue and white: blond wood, white walls, sky blue curtains and linens. In other days, the pale palette would have repulsed him. But now he doesn’t mind. His physical surroundings have been of little consequence for the past six months. This isn’t Baker Street. No house, however well-appointed, will ever equal its singular comforts. The frosty décor of Irene’s villa is neither here nor there.

Irene and Nero have the top floor to themselves. Irene’s bedroom adjoins the smaller nursery, and of course there’s a magnificent bath, all white marble and shining nickel fixtures. Irene’s own room is even more self-consciously grand than the ground floor. Her furniture is French Deco at its finest. The bed, nightstands, dressing table, and armoire are of Macassar ebony with ivory inlay. The deep copper tones of the wood provide some relief from the starkness of the rest of the space: white duvet, white walls, white curtains. There is a sitting area just to the left of the hall door which contains an elegantly curved sofa and two chairs, also in white. The only color in the room besides the ebony is the painting over the bed, a genuine Lempicka. It depicts a dark-haired lady in blue holding a bouquet of orchids. Her sharp bones, glossy complexion, and blank stare give her the look of a beautiful automaton. She faces the sliding doors that lead out to the upstairs terrace, her empty eyes gazing into the greater void of sea and sky.

Very striking, Irene’s room. Some might call it sensual in its chill way. But it stirs nothing in Sherlock. He is content to pass it by and continue down the hall to the nursery.

In Nero’s room the colors are richer, and the atmosphere is cozy instead of stark. Irene chose a nature theme, with walls of robin’s egg blue and a cot and changing table of leafy green. There is a tree painted on one wall, with curving branches and fluttering birds. A doe peeks shyly from behind its trunk. The pictures on the wall depict happy woodland creatures: squirrels, rabbits, more deer. The room looks nothing like the rest of the house, and Sherlock is glad of it.

Irene, wearing her favorite black silk pajamas, is seated in the green upholstered rocking chair. Nero is in her lap, held securely in place by one of his mother’s manicured hands. In the crook of her other arm is balanced an oversized storybook: _D’Aulaires Book of Greek Myths._ It’s big enough that Nero can touch it, trace his small fingers over the colorful pages. But for the most part he is focused on his mother. Irene reads aloud very well. Her voice is soft but bright, with many interesting changes in pitch and tone. Just the thing to fascinate an infant. 

_“Artemis, as a newborn goddess, went to her father, Zeus, and asked him to grant her a wish. She wanted to remain forever a wild maiden hunting through the woods, and she asked him to promise never to make her marry. Zeus consented, and then she asked him for 50 fleet nymphs as companions and a pack of lop-eared hounds to hunt with. Her father gave her all she asked._

_“When the moon’s magic light shone over echoing hills and wooded valleys, Artemis hunted with the nymphs and her hounds. After a wild hunt, the goddess loved to bathe in a quiet pool. Woe to the mortal who happened to see her then!”_ Irene takes the baby’s hand in hers, bouncing him a bit. “Now pay attention lovey, for here is the interesting part of the story.

_“One night, a young hunter whose name was Actaeon came upon the pool in the woods where Artemis and her nymphs were bathing. He should have run for his life, but instead, he stood spellbound by the sight of the goddess. Artemis was furious! While the nymphs flung a tunic over her shoulders, the goddess dipped her hand into the pool and threw a handful of water at him. The moment the silver drops touched his forehead, antlers sprouted, and rapidly all of Actaeon turned into a stag. His own hounds leaped at him, and, to his horror, he could not utter a human sound to call them off. They brought him down, never knowing the deer was their own master.”_

_“‘No mortal shall live to boast that he has seen Artemis bathing,’ said the goddess, and she picked up her bow and went hunting with her nymphs. Artemis was a cold, pitiless goddess.”_

Irene frowns at the book. “I agree,” she says to the baby, as if Nero had voiced an opinion. “That last bit is rather unfair. What if Actaeon had put naked pictures on the Internet?”

“Artemis might have liked the notoriety,” Sherlock says, entering. “As others have before her.”

Irene blinks, looking up from the book. “Hmm, I doubt it. Artemis was a very serious person.”

“Virgins always are.”

Irene smirks. “Right. She and the nymphs were just good friends.”

“Like Zeus and Ganymede. Perhaps it’s why he was so indulgent to Artemis. They understood each other very well.”

“Indulgent? When your father is the most powerful being in the universe, I hardly call a few nymphs and some hunting dogs indulgent. It was the very least he could do.” Irene scowls. “Athena was Zeus’ favorite: a real virgin for him to fuss over. Typical alpha-male rubbish.”

“You seem to feel strongly about this.”

Irene’s face clears. Careful of Nero’s fingers, she closes the book. “Of course not. It’s just a silly story.” She clasps the baby to her bosom and rises. Nero plucks gently at her pajama top, but she shakes her head at him. “You’ve had quite enough, piglet. No more until later.” She pokes Nero’s fat belly, and he squeals. Then he holds out his arms in Sherlock’s direction. 

“I think your attention is wanted, Daddy,” Irene says.

After a second’s hesitation, Sherlock takes the baby from her arms. As always, the warm solid weight of Nero astonishes him. Nero looks up at Sherlock with his wide grey eyes. “Da!” he says. This is followed by a string of syllables that seem to rival Serbian in their complexity.

“I’ll never get over it,” Irene says. “I gave birth to him—22 hours of bloody agony. I change him and give him the breast, I read him fairy tales, and his first word is ‘Da-da.’”

“The ‘d’ sound is easier to make than the ‘m’ sound.” Sherlock pauses. “I also read to him.”

“Yes. What was that godawful thing you were exposing him to the day before yesterday?”

“Fustel. His doctoral thesis on Polybius, 1858. Nero liked it very well.”

“He is definitely your son,” she sighs.

“I’ve never doubted it.” Sherlock looks down at Nero’s small, handsome face—how very like Sherrinford he is! The baby yawns widely. Sherlock walks over and carefully lowers Nero into his cheerful green cot. Irene comes up beside him, the new stuffed bear in her hand. She places it next to Nero, who clutches it happily, chewing on the bear’s leg.

“Aren’t stuffed animals in the cot dangerous?” Sherlock says.

“Sod it. He won’t nap without it. Thanks _very_ much, Zoran. But Nero is made of stern stuff. He can probably survive one little bear.” Irene reaches into the cot, brushing the curls back from Nero’s face. They both watch for a few moments as his eyes close, long lashes fanning on his rosy cheeks. Until his sturdy little body relaxes in sleep.

“A miracle child,” Sherlock says.

“Miracle?”

“Both his parents are gay and dead. What else would you call him?”

Irene is silent a moment, contemplating her son. Her face is more solemn than he usually sees it. During these months in Montenegro, she has been so determinedly upbeat. “I’d call him a gift,” she says at last. “The best one I’ve received. Better than all the bloody Louboutins in Paris.”

Sherlock says nothing. He is almost embarrassed by the naked love in her face. If someone had asked him a year ago what sort of mother Irene Adler would be, he would have shuddered at the very idea. But she is a good mother, and Nero adores her. You never can predict human nature completely. For all of Sherlock’s talents, he is sometimes surprised by it.

“I wouldn’t have supposed that you wanted a child,” he says slowly. 

“Is that your delicate way of asking why I didn’t terminate?” Irene’s voice is light, but he sees the tension in her shoulders.

Sherlock says nothing. There’s nothing he can say, not with Nero sleeping peacefully right in front of his eyes. But it’s a question he has asked himself. As able a mother as Irene has turned out to be, this couldn’t have been something she planned. Not with the life she was living before.

“I kept him because he was mine,” Irene says. She turns her head slowly, fixing Sherlock with her clear gaze. “And because he was yours.”

Sherlock has to look away. He looks down, adjusting the bear so it’s not so near to Nero’s face. He stands it in the corner of the cot, as if the toy were keeping watch.

“You look confused,” Irene says. “You shouldn’t be. I didn’t have to have him, but I did. You didn’t have to stay in Budva all these months, but here you are. Why do you suppose that is?”

“I’ve nowhere else to go.”

“You have the whole world.” She pauses. “As amazed as you are—and I know you _are_ amazed—that I’m a good mum, I am more amazed that you’re a good dad. You don’t change nappies, and you read your son stultifying history texts instead of storybooks. But you’re here. You give a damn. That’s more than you can say for many men. My own father included.”

Irene puts her hand on his. “You love your son, Sherlock. Even if you haven’t said it yet.” 

Sherlock can’t answer this. Struck as mute as Actaeon, unable to pronounce even his own name. He suspects Irene is right, but he can’t be sure. His ability to process his emotions, never acute even in the best of times, has been blunted by all the horrors of last summer. He can’t parse his feelings for his son. It’s all he can do to remind himself that Nero _is_ his son, not the handsome offspring of somebody else. That, perhaps, is the worst horror of all. The idea that he could be to Nero as Siger was to him: cold and disconnected, little more than an intimidating stranger.

“I’m trying, Irene,” he manages to rasp. 

“I know how hard this has been for you,” she says. “But you’ve been very good. Better than you realize, I think.” Her solemn expression clears, and she gives him a dazzling smile. “Do you know what happens to good boys at this time of year? They get presents!”

“What? I don’t—” But Irene just takes him by the wrist and leads him out of the nursery. Before he can inquire or protest further, she’s hurried him through the connecting door to the bath. Then through the other door, into her bedroom. 

She waves him towards the sofa. “Sit. Don’t look behind you.” He sees her walk towards the armoire that is situated behind and to the right of the sofa, by the sliding glass doors.

He hesitates. “We said no presents except for Nero.” They’re supposed to be economizing, though Irene certainly shops enough. He has no idea how much she has stashed away, but he’s been touching his own funds as little as possible. He should have put more in his secret account over the years, but 20/20 hindsight and all that. He has offered Irene money more than once, but she always rolls her eyes and tells him to put it into Nero’s college fund. _“Have you any idea what a decent university will cost in 2030? It could turn your hair grey, darling.”_

“Hmm, that’s right,” Irene says, with one hand on the armoire door. “I suppose I forgot.”

“You didn’t forget.” 

“No, I didn’t.” She fixes him with an icy stare. _“Sit.”_

Sherlock is no Labrador, but he can respect a clear hierarchy. He sits. He hears the armoire open behind him, and then a shuffling noise, as if something bulky is being taken off a shelf. The door squeaks again as Irene closes it. Soon he senses her behind him.

“Close your eyes,” she says. He closes them, and hears a thunk as she puts the object on the sofa table. “There now. Happy Christmas!”

Sherlock opens his eyes. Then he stares. He closes his eyes then opens them again, to make sure he is really seeing the object before him. He feels the sofa dip a little as Irene sits beside him, close enough that he can smell her perfume. But he can’t look at her. He can’t seem to focus on anything but his gift.

To most eyes it would look like an old, scuffed case of pale brown leather, three feet in length and oblong-shaped, like a miniature coffin. Casual observers might be struck by the intricate scrolling design of nails on the case’s lid, but they would not realize the nails are handmade. Hundreds of them, painstakingly crafted and set in place. They would not notice the amazing workmanship of the wrought iron hinges which encircle the case. They would not be able to place or date the leather: northern Italy, early 18th Century. These casual observers would have no idea who made this, or what it’s worth: nearly as much as what it was originally designed to hold. They would not know because they have never seen anything like it before, though they would have heard of its maker. Even Sherlock has seen its like only once, in a museum.

“Is this—” he stops, swallowing. His words seem to be coming from far away. “Can it be?”

“Open it,” Irene says, nudging him. “You haven’t seen the best bit yet.”

He reaches out a hand. His slowly lifts the lid of the case and looks upon its contents. Irene was right: The case wasn’t the best bit. But _this_ —for the first time, Sherlock wonders if he is still in his study, nodding over Henry Dell. Surely he must be dreaming. 

The violin inside is a little larger than the standard size. Its maker was known to experiment with such dimensions. But this doesn’t diminish the beauty of the instrument, crafted of three woods, spruce, willow, and maple. The last of these, used for the ribs and back, is wonderfully rippled. The varnish—that mysterious mixture of gum arabic, honey, egg white and something else unknown to this day—gives the wood a deep gloss. 

Sherlock runs a finger over the wood. He traces the shallowly fluted scroll, the pinched F-hole wings, the wide peg box, all signs of authenticity. But there is something that makes this violin different from others by the same maker. Not just the size: More singular is the inlay around the top, an elegant progression of ivory diamonds. There is also a more intricate inlay on the ribs, done in deepest ebony. It depicts birds, dozens of them, rising from a stylized pattern of flames. 

If you look inside the instrument, you will see the label which tells you when it was made (1710) and where (Cremona). It will also tell you the name of the maker, but perhaps you have already guessed. Even the most casual of observers would recognize it. 

“Stradivarius,” Sherlock whispers. “This is the Phoenix Stradivarius.”

That is what makes this impossible. Though it is plausible that Irene could find a Stradivarius for him and pay its unearthly price, he cannot believe that she found _this_ Stradivarius. Nobody has seen it in 93 years. All that remains are a few old photographs, moldering in an album at 19 Chapel Street. Almost nobody has bothered to look at those in decades. Nobody but Sherlock.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Irene says. “How can it be? Your great-uncle, Evelyn Holmes, lost the Phoenix in 1919. He left it somewhere during one of his drug binges. His brother Tom never forgave him, and Evie never forgave himself. He had plenty of reasons for committing suicide—shellshock, his best friend’s death in the Great War, the morphine habit—but the loss of the Strad must have been a factor. They found a picture of it on the desk where he shot himself. The story was told at the beginning of “The Sussex Vampires,” a nice counterpoint to that more recent tale of youth gone bad. John is talented, isn’t he?”

“I don’t understand. Where did you find it?”

“It was never really lost, darling. One of Evie’s poppy-sniffing mates got hold of the Phoenix and sold it to a private collector. _He_ sold it to another collector later on, and it’s been in his vault for decades. But the old man died a few months ago, and his grandson let it be known in certain select markets that the Strad was for sale. Too bad it went missing again, before he could make a king’s ransom off it.” She gives Sherlock a sly smile. “There goes his yacht.”

Sherlock stares at her. “You stole it?”

“Had it stolen. Cost a bit to hire the proper team, but still much cheaper than bidding at auction.” She raises her chin. “Before you start moralizing, remember that the violin was stolen from your family to begin with. In a just world, it would have been your rightful property. It’s not like Evie left any sons behind him.” Irene stretches in a satisfied way. “I do hope Nero shows a talent for the violin and not the piano. I can’t imagine the logistics of nicking a Broadwood Grand.”

 _“The_ Woman,” Sherlock says. “Now I remember why I named you that.” Who else could have conceived and executed such a scheme? Nobody. Not in 93 years.

“I named myself that, if you recall,” she says. “But I’ll take the comment as a compliment.”

“You must have used your old contacts,” Sherlock says. “You’re supposed to be dead, Irene.”

“I was careful. Anyway, it’s not like anybody was surprised to hear that I hadn’t really had my head cut off. Most of the interesting people I know have died at least once. Including you.” She straightens, crossing her arms over her chest. “Are you going to lecture me all evening, or are you going to play the priceless heirloom I heisted on your behalf?” She indicates the instrument. 

Sherlock’s gaze is caught by it again. Such a lovely thing! How the lamplight makes the wood glow, its ivory diamonds shine. The ebony birds around the ribs seem to dance in their flames, beckoning to him. How long has the Phoenix’s voice been silent? Imprisoned in a secret vault, gloated over but never touched, never allowed to do the one thing she was meant for. A tragedy as sad as Uncle Evie’s wretched end. 

Perhaps dying has had a bad effect on Sherlock’s morals. Because he realizes that he doesn’t care a bit what laws Irene broke to recover his violin. It was right to rescue the Phoenix. She must be touched, she must be played. He won’t let her languish a second longer.

He looks in the box for the bow. It’s a very good one, of deep golden-orange pernambuco wood, mounted with gold and real tortoiseshell. Early 19th Century, the work of another, lesser-known master: Francois Tourte. Evelyn Holmes had two Tourte bows. After his death, the other was found snapped in half at the back of his bedroom wardrobe. His brother had it repaired as good as new. For all Sherlock knows that bow is still at Baker Street, right on the music stand. How he’s missed it these past few months! To be holding its twin only adds to the dreamlike quality of this evening. But if Sherlock is dreaming, he will make the most of it. 

He grips the bow and stands. Moving with more confidence now, he takes the Strad from her case. (The case isn’t Evie’s: Who was it stolen from? Doesn’t matter. It’s Sherlock’s now.) He puts the violin into position, carefully cradled against his chin, his left hand gripping the fingerboard while his right hand clasps the bow. He pauses. What to play at such a moment?

He doesn’t have to ponder long. There is only one composer worthy. Just one piece. The first concerto which Sherlock ever mastered. He does not even have to go to his memory palace for the sheet music—the notes spring as readily to mind as his own name. Music that once moved his brother to tears, though Mycroft will go to his grave denying it.

Mozart’s Violin Concerto No. 3. Written when he was just 19, but his genius was already in full bloom. That singular talent which seemed touched by the divine, enough to make a confirmed atheist doubt his own skepticism. To wonder if God does exist, and if this is, in fact, his voice. 

Sherlock puts the bow to the strings. A moment more of hesitation—of fear. Perhaps he is, in fact, not worthy. Yet here he is, Strad in hand. He gathers his courage. He begins to play.

From the moment the first notes come singing from the Strad, all his doubts and fears fall away. There is none of the discomfort that comes with a strange violin. For the Phoenix is not strange. 

He learned her curves when he was a boy, tracing a finger over old, forgotten photographs. Half-aroused, half-devastated at so much lost perfection. So many nights he dreamed of holding her. He put such thoughts away when he was 16, and Father at last allowed him Grandfather Thomas’ Guarneri. A fine instrument, not exquisite like the Phoenix but noble, rare in its responsiveness and power. Its splendid reality was better than his hopeless fantasy; he and the Guarneri were soon fast friends. Were he ever to possess the Phoenix, he could not like her better. 

Or so he thought. It’s fortunate that he convinced himself of this, that he did not realize what Evie’s carelessness had cost. (Though young Thomas knew. Standing over his brother’s coffin, he did not forgive.) Sherlock did not know the true scope of what was lost, or he could not have borne it. But how could he have guessed? How could he know until this moment? 

The Phoenix is _not_ strange. She responds to him at once, with the resonance for which the best instruments by Stradivari—and the Phoenix is the very best—are known. A dazzling generosity of tone, responding to the merest touch with a sound both rich and deep, as soft as velvet and as dark as midnight. The Strad sings like that for anyone. She tries, even in the clumsiest hands.

But that is not all she does for Sherlock. Perhaps it is her long silence which makes her sound like this. Perhaps it is the Mozart, and Sherlock’s own needy grasp, bereft of a real violin all of these months. But as the Phoenix comes alive in his hands, he knows it must be more than that. The notes of the allegro pour from her like molten gold, brilliant and burning. He knows that she has never sung like this before. She would not sing for anyone else as she sings for him tonight. 

Violin Concerto No. 3. So simple a novice can play it, so complex even a master cannot plumb its every depth. The allegro has always made Sherlock think of running through a meadow on a summer morning, surrounded by sunlight and singing birds. But now he sees only one bird. She soars to the sky, her plumage shining, her voice rising. Soon you cannot tell glowing feathers from glowing notes. They are one with the sun, the golden conflagration growing ever-brighter. 

A fire which consumes the world, such welcome inferno! Lost in it is the darkness that blighted your life. Not just the darkness of the last year, but all your years, since you were torn from your mother’s breast. Tears set ablaze—and shame—and loneliness. All your pain put to the flames. Until the fires flare up in one last note of infinite power and sweetness. Music fading, everything cooling and fading, crumbling to gentle grey ash.

But the ashes do not rest. For the song is not done, it cannot stop on oblivion, as painless as such an ending might be. The fire burns again, its ashes blazing as no ashes ever should. Within them something stirs, gently at first, then brilliantly. Something rises from the ruins, more magnificent than ever before. The Phoenix arises, that being of indomitable will and immortal grace. She cannot be destroyed. The more you burn her, the stronger she becomes. 

The song ends, but the Phoenix’s voice will never be silenced. The light returns as she rises; the world is reborn with her. You are reborn. 

Sherlock’s hands fall to his sides. There are two more movements, but he can’t play them now. He is too overwhelmed from the allegro. The adagio and rondo would kill him for sure, skull split in a thousand pieces from sheer bliss. The best of all possible endings, but one he does not wish to experience yet. For the first time in years, he is not half in love with easeful death. As if the Phoenix’s song were still echoing within, turning his blood to fire. He’s almost panting, hands trembling, his face hot with excitement. He does not want to play. But there _is_ something he wants. What can this feeling be? He hasn’t felt anything like it in so long.

Carefully, for his fingers are awkward with adrenaline, he puts the violin and bow back in the case. He turns to his companion. Her own expression is rapt, as if she is truly moved. Strange, for Irene has never been a lover of classical music. But now her face is as flushed as his own.

“So that is how happiness looks on you,” she says. “I have wondered.” 

It takes Sherlock a moment to find speech again. “Why?” he whispers at last. “How?” He wishes he could elaborate. _Why did you do this for me? How could you know?_ I _didn’t know. My heart’s desire, and I never guessed._ But he can’t speak further. Words desert him as they always do in moments like this, when he would give his soul for eloquence.

But Irene understands. 

“I know what men like,” she says with the softest of smirks. “I always know.”

“Why?” Again it’s all he can manage, and it’s the question she didn’t answer.

She stares at him intently. Her eyes are a color very like his own, her face sharp like his if more symmetrical, with waving black hair falling across her forehead. You could mistake her for his sister, but she isn’t. They have been living like siblings, but he has never forgotten the truth.

“A priceless gift for a priceless gift,” she says. “Seems like a fair exchange, don’t you think?”

He shakes his head. “Nero wasn’t—I—I didn’t mean—” 

“You meant to save my life. I never thanked you. If you had bundled me off that boat and onto the first plane, it would have been more than I deserved. But you stayed with me in Mumbai. You gave me what I needed, though you knew it was a risk. You don’t love me, Sherlock. But you’ve rescued me twice. Once from an assassin’s blade, and again when you fathered Nero. It’s such a cliché, isn’t it, that motherhood can change one so completely? Maybe it isn’t that way for every woman. But not every woman is as fucked up as I was. My life is different, _I’m_ different. Like I can finally be who I was meant to be. You did that, dearest.”

Her fingers twine in his. She draws nearer, he can smell her perfume. Jasmine and rose mixed up together, with notes of michelia, iris root and pear blossom. Undertones of moss and musk. Many flowers making the perfect ideal of one, as sweet as the blooms in the Elysian Fields. He knows this scent, the most expensive on Earth. _Joy:_ Before, Sherlock found it ironic that Irene chose it for her signature fragrance. But now he realizes it suits her. 

The scent of her is like the feeling coursing through his own veins, warm and divinely golden. He looks into her face, the very ideal of a woman’s face. He always thought this, even when he hated her. Even then he wanted her. If that’s narcissism, he doesn’t care. She’s not his sister.

“You don’t love me,” Irene repeats. But he hears the faintest uptick at the end of that sentence. The shadow of a question, tremulous and low. 

Sherlock couldn’t speak now if all of Artemis’ hounds were tearing him to pieces. But he should answer. He must answer Irene, but he’s as mute as stone. But _he_ is not stone, cold and unfeeling. 

So he kisses her. It’s all he can do. And as Irene melts against him, Sherlock knows it was the answer she wanted. It’s what he wants, he can’t deny it. Part of him will always burn for her; his death did not change that. Irene, who steals miracles for him. How could he not want her?

Irene breaks the kiss. She rests her head against his chest, drowning him in the scent of blossoms and musk. “You do love me,” she says, and her voice is almost fierce.

He does not contradict her. But he can’t say it. He looks down at her fingers. Their glossy red tips are pressing into his wrist. He has a moment of dislocation, time seems to bend. He could be 18 again, caught in the grip of another woman with scarlet nails and knowing eyes. Not Iris, as The Woman is known here, but Violet. Lovely and ruthless flowers, seducing and tormenting him. Irene has been so good recently, he’s forgotten what she can do. How bad she can be.

“I should go,” he rasps, and feels her stiffen. She glares up at him.

 _“No,”_ she snaps. Then she seems to gather herself. The hard line of her jaw softens. “You wouldn’t sleep now if you tried. You never sleep. Why do you suppose that is?”

He wasn’t talking about going to sleep. He was talking about fleeing into the night, possibly while screaming. But he says nothing. He just stares as Irene takes a step back. As she starts undoing the buttons on her pajama top.

“Nero doesn’t sleep either, when I don’t look after him. Like father like son, Sherlock. What makes you think you don’t need me?” Irene pushes the pajama top off her shoulders. One more easy movement, and she pushes the pajama bottoms down. She’s naked under the silky material.

Irene has never been shy about undressing in front of him. But he hasn’t seen her lately. He’s always turned away when she’s feeding Nero, discomfited in a way he can’t explain. He hasn’t looked at her body in a long time, not directly. Which is why he stares now.

She’s not how she was two years ago, when she first exposed herself to him. Nor does she look like she did in Mumbai. She is no longer an enticing nymph. Her waist is wider, her hips fuller. She’s not totally waxed now, her pubis downed with dark hair. Her breasts are white globes, the areolas large and dusky pink. She’s still achingly beautiful, but not nymph-like. Not a virgin goddess at all. Hera, perhaps, or Aphrodite. Lush with fertility.

 _I did that to her,_ Sherlock thinks, and the thought makes him feel as though all the oxygen has gone from the room. He can’t think, all his senses overloaded with flesh and flowers and fire.

“You need me,” Irene says. “And you can have me. You don’t have to talk. I know what you like. More important, _I know what you want._ I’ve finally worked it out.”

He would like to know what she means by this, but before he can begin to gather words, her nimble fingers are stripping his clothes off. Once he’s naked he reaches for her, but she stops him with a look. Gently but firmly, Irene pushes him into a sitting position on the sofa. She climbs into his lap, straddling his hips with her thighs, and the feel of her sliding against him is so exquisite that it’s all he can do to restrain himself. One swift thrust and he could be deep inside. He must make a tell-tale fidget, because she shoves him hard against the back of the sofa.

“Be good,” she says warningly. With much effort, he stills. Irene settles more comfortably. His needy cock strains towards her, but she doesn’t sink down on him. Instead she smiles. She runs a soft hand down his face. 

“My handsome boy,” she says. “Nero looks just like you, you know.” When Sherlock shakes his head: “He does. He’s so much like you, except he’s honest. He can’t really talk, but he can ask for what he needs. You could learn from him. I certainly have. He helped me to understand why you can’t be in the room when I feed him. It used to hurt my feelings; I thought you were disgusted. But yesterday when you left, I really looked at your face. That’s when I saw. It’s just like Nero’s when he’s thwarted. Sad and angry.” She leans close, whispering. “Hungry.”

Sherlock gapes up at her. The world seems to have narrowed to Irene’s beautiful, pitiless face. She leans forward. Her left breast, ripe and white, is just before his eyes. As he watches, pearly moisture beads on the pink nipple. He takes a ragged breath as his heart thunders in his ears.

“Drink me,” Irene says. “Then fuck me. That’s what you really want, isn’t it, dearest?”

He opens his mouth to protest, but no words come out. He shifts as if to flee, but he can’t seem to move. Totally paralyzed except for his cock. That’s still straining and weeping. Irene takes his head in her hands. Carefully as if it were the son and not the father, she draws his face to her breast. She smells like milk and roses. She feels like every wrong and needful thing he has ever desired. She looks like heaven and total damnation. 

_“Drink,”_ she whispers. Her voice is not harsh or commanding. Not even seductive. She says it like a mother would say it. She says it like Violet. His first Violet.

Sherlock bends his head and drinks.


	26. Chapter 26

** Sherlock, 2012 (cont.) **

Kapari Beach, Mykonos. With its view of sacred Delos in the distance, it is an oasis of quiet on this noisy, tourist-infested island. A crescent of grey-white sand surrounded by green and rocky hills, it borders waters of such calmness and beauty, such unspoiled tranquility, that you could imagine yourself returning to the days of the Spartans and the Athenians. 

You could swim out into the calm blue waters, spurning the sirens on the rocks, braving the nereids beckoning from beneath the waves. Until you surfaced on the shores of sacred Delos. You would endure steep, barren terrain, passing forests of broken columns, crowds of maimed statues. You would walk the Sacred Way, your eyes dazzled by so much mutilated beauty. But you would continue on, coming to your destination tired, thirsty, and half-blind with sun. You know that you’ve arrived when you see the seven stone lions. There were once twelve, perhaps more. But these are what remain, bleached white by two thousand years of merciless light. 

There’s not much left of Apollo’s temple now. Just a single lonely pediment, supported by the four columns which remain upright. Behind those columns is another battered statue, half a man at most, legs and belly but nothing above. The head and heart of the god are missing. They could lie in the ruins somewhere, but no one knows for certain. His sister Artemis is entirely gone. All that remains of her temple is two broken columns and half a wall. She may be somewhere in the dust, a heap of rubble that was once a goddess. 

Does Apollo miss his sister? Impossible to know. He has no eyes to shed tears, no mouth to sing songs of mourning. Perhaps he resigned himself to losing her long ago. Perhaps he never loved her: Artemis was a cruel and pitiless goddess. Crueler than her brother, for all his vanity and lust. A creature of night, of shadows and secrets, she could never accept his stark, splendid light. She was the moon, changeable and obscured. He was the sun, arrogant in his brilliance. They were twins, but they were never friends.

“Yeah. Sisters are a pain in the ass,” John says. 

Sherlock blinks, coming back from Delos. He digs his fingers into the warm, comforting sands of Kapari Beach. Then he turns his face towards his companion. “I wouldn’t know.”

John nods in a thoughtful way. “Harriet Holmes never existed. Tiberius Wolfe doesn’t, either. But you and Irene keep bloody trying, don’t you? You should be twins.” He sighs. “Doesn’t mean you should stay together, though. Apollo had the right idea.”

Sherlock looks out over the waters. “She loves me.”

“I love you,” John says quietly. “But you still left. I don’t know why I’m here now. We never made it to Mykonos. A case came along and spoiled our plans.”

“The Sussex Vampires,” Sherlock says. “I remember.”

John is silent a moment. The hard white Grecian sun is severe on him. It brings out the lines in his face, highlights the pock marks and lack of symmetry. He is not handsome, he does not look like a god or hero. But his face is the one Sherlock likes best to see. He hopes that John, for all his valor, is not a hero. The life of a hero is hard and lonely. All the myths agree. 

“If we had gone to Mykonos, would you have told me how you feel?” John asks at last. 

“No. Never.”

“Why?”

“You’re not gay.” Sherlock pauses. “I know you love me. But it’s like a brother loves me.”

“Your brothers don’t love you. Not like I do.”

Sherlock digs his toes into the sand. He sees bits of shell stuck to his calf. He realizes then that he’s as naked as a baby. John is naked, too. His body is lovely in a compact and muscular way, far more handsome than his face. Their nakedness should dismay him, but it feels very easy and natural. Which is why he can finally ask.

“If I had told you. If I’d kissed you on the beach in Mykonos, what would you have done?” 

“I shot a man the first night I knew you. I killed him to protect you. Rather more meaningful than a bunch of roses, wouldn’t you say?” 

Sherlock shakes his head in disbelief. “No. If you wanted me, I would have seen. All those girlfriends—”

“Yes, my random girlfriends. That’s me. Desperately random, waiting for you.” In spite of the light, a shadow has fallen on John’s face. “I still am. I’ll wait for you until I die. Of course, that won’t be very long. A hero’s death, Sherlock! Bloody and glorious.”

 _“No,”_ Sherlock insists. “I died so you wouldn’t. You’re supposed to go on. Be happy.”

“With one of my random girlfriends? I don’t think so. I’m a warrior, mate. You knew it when I shot Jeff Hope in the heart. The ugly jumpers and sensible shoes, they’re camouflage. Did you think your death would change what I really am? All it changes is the battle I choose to fight.”

“And when the battle is over?” Sherlock whispers.

“It’s never over. Not for me. I loved you, and now there’s nothing left. Not even ruins.”

Sherlock can’t speak. He looks at the calm blue sea. It seems to blur into the surrounding sky. Or perhaps it’s his vision, blurring with tears he hasn’t shed. He’s cried for himself, for the life he lost. But now he sheds tears for John. A hero who deserved better.

He feels a touch on his shoulder.

“It’s okay. You didn’t know,” John says.

“I still don’t,” Sherlock rasps. “This is a dream. You’re not really here.”

“No, I’m not. But think of it this way. If it’s a dream, you can kiss me.”

Sherlock turns his head. John is smiling, and now he is handsome. As handsome as Helios, the sunlight circling his head like a ring of fire. To touch him would be to burn. But Sherlock does touch, his hand on John’s neck, and it doesn’t burn. Warmth spreads through his body, it seems to touch the cold core of his soul. As John’s warmth always touched him, from the first night they knew each other. The night John, a warrior to his bones, killed for him. 

Then John kisses him, and Sherlock does burn. Skin touches naked skin, there are no barriers between them now, no more camouflage. They fall back on the white sand, and the heat of the sun dissolves into the heat of their bodies. The touch of John’s hands on Sherlock’s flesh ignites something in him. A light he has never known before, sacred and secret. It’s too wonderful and powerful, it must consume them both. They are content that it’s so. There is no death here, no separation. They will burn together forever, and be glad of it.

 _This,_ Sherlock thinks as he burns. _All I ever wanted, this and only this. My heart’s desire, and I always knew it. More precious than a thousand Stradivarius violins._

He opens his eyes in the chill white light of Christmas morning. 

Mykonos melts into cold air. The sun and heat are gone, John is gone. Sherlock is alone.

He sits up slowly in the big white bed. His circumstances are strange, he has never slept here before. But they are also not strange, he knows this feeling. He’s experienced it many times, though not for a long time. This grey, heavy feeling in his chest. It’s not sorrow and it’s not shame, but an excruciating blend of both. Irene is very good at what she does: Normally it requires an 8-ball and two or more rent boys to spark this extremity of regret in him.

Sherlock can’t bear being in her bed a second longer. He throws back the duvet and gets up. He picks up his clothes from the floor by the sofa, but he doesn’t put them on. Instead he leaves the third floor like a man fleeing the scene of his worst crime, his heart thundering, a bitter metallic taste in his mouth. His head aches, and his stomach is twisted with a vicious nauseous feeling. Cocaine can cause migraines and kill the appetite, but this is not a cocaine crash. Even if it feels like one. He can’t blame last night on drugs, he did what he did cold sober. He has no excuses.

He does feel slightly better once he returns to his own rooms on the second floor. Throwing his clothes in the hamper by the bed, he walks directly into the bath. He gets in the shower, turning the handle of the tap nearly all the way to the right. When he steps under the stream, the heat of it is almost too much to bear, but he endures. He soaps up a flannel and scrubs himself all over, seeing his skin flush pink from friction and heat. It hurts, and he’s glad of it. Anything to help wash away last night. If he smells her perfume for one more second he’s going to vomit. _Joy:_ Sherlock sees the irony again now. 

As he scrubs, scenes from last night return to him. A heap of broken images, their sharp edges slicing his already raw emotions. Broken but clear. He can hear every moan, feel every thrust, see every inch of pale and quivering flesh. He can taste—

No. He won’t think of that. The rest of last night will be saved in his memory palace. He will shove everything into that dank, bare chamber where he buries the remains of his various binges. Memories kept forever in those deep wells in the floor, an oubliette for every lost weekend. But he won’t keep one memory. Irene’s soft pink nipple in his mouth, the sweet milky taste of her. The _milk_ —no. He’s going to delete that. As if it never happened. It will never happen again. 

The water is turning cold, and his skin is as red as a lobster fresh from the pot. Reluctantly, he turns the tap off. He steps out of the shower and scrubs himself vigorously with one of the thick white towels. Now his nose can only detect the scent of water, with its faint metallic tinge, and the scent of soap, clean and minty. His chest heaves in relief.

He goes into his bedroom and opens the chest across from the bed. He dresses quickly, in pants, socks, t-shirt. He heads to the closet and adds more layers, trousers and a belt, a shirt buttoned to the neck, a blazer on top of that. The shirt is dark blue and the suit is black, like the shades of an old bruise. He would like to add a heavy scarf and an overcoat, if that wouldn’t be too much for indoors. In his present mood, a parka wouldn’t feel like excessive coverage. But he contents himself with the suit. 

He’s sitting on the side of the bed, tying the laces on his shoes, when he feels a touch at his arm. He jumps a bit before he realizes who it must be. He looks down into Faust’s wide green eyes. The cat’s ears are turned back in an accusing way, his white moustaches twitching.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock says. His voice sounds raw and strange, but he forces himself to keep speaking. He was too silent last night. 

“I know you must have waited up,” he continues. “Circumstances beyond my control.”

Faust sits on the bed, big paws folded before him, skepticism in every inch of his fluffy form. The cat’s posture is strangely familiar. It takes Sherlock a moment to realize that his father used to question him the same way. Not speaking, hands steepled and waiting, until his naughty boy revealed everything. Even the expression in Faust’s eyes is the same: cold condescension tinged with impatience. _I know you will break, so you may as well break now and get it over with._

“All right!” Sherlock says. “If nothing else will satisfy you. I slept with her.”

Faust’s eyes narrow slightly. _And?_

“And—we did other things. Perverse things. I won’t go into specifics.”

Faust’s accepts this with a flick of his ears, the feline version of a shrug. _Nothing about human perversity shocks me. And?_

“I enjoyed it. I did. She’s very skilled, you know. She used to do it professionally.”

Faust’s moustaches quiver as he makes a moue of disgust. _I know. That’s why I won’t let her pet me. I’ve had all my shots, but one can’t be too careful. Too bad there’s no vaccination for stupidity. Eh, lad?_

Fucking hell, he sounds like Siger. The slow enunciation, the perfect diction. The voice of God, if God spoke in RP. Which he certainly does.

“There’s no need to be insulting,” Sherlock says. “I regret my actions, and there’s an end of it.”

 _Regret. With that and an Oyster card, I can go to Wimbledon. What are you going to_ do _about it?_

“What do you mean, do?”

 _By_ do, _I mean_ go. _Right now, in the clothes you stand up in. Take your papers and your Strad and nothing else. Except me, of course. My carrier is in the closet. Quickly now, before the Woman comes searching. We can be at the Tivat airport before she even knows we’re gone._

“I can’t do that.”

Faust’s tail is twitching back and forth with irritation. _Why not?_

“I just can’t.” Sherlock pauses. “She does love me, in her way.”

_She owns you. It’s not the same thing. My former family, they owned me. They took my balls and left me to starve. At least I kept my claws. What will The Woman leave you? Nothing. She wants your balls, your claws, your very name, Sherlock. Tiberius Wolfe does not exist, but she will bring him to life through sheer force of will if you don’t stop her. You can make this stop. She’s as cruel as a cat, but she isn’t clever like one. Not so clever as you. Remember that._

Faust turns on his back and crooks his paws. Just like that, the illusion shatters. The cat has nothing to say on the matter; he doesn’t care if Sherlock has sex with Irene or not. Faust just wants his belly rubbed. With a sigh, Sherlock obliges.

Faust doesn’t care, but he must sense Sherlock’s depressed mood. He doesn’t try to trap him with his claws, but purrs like an engine as Sherlock strokes him. The simple contact shouldn’t make Sherlock feel better, but it does. By the time Faust has grown tired of the attention and stalked to the other side of the bed for his late morning nap, Sherlock is almost calm.

He gets up from the bed. He has to go downstairs. He doesn’t want to face her, but he will. 

Sherlock interrupts a rather lovely scene in the lounge. Or he would have thought it lovely, had he seen it yesterday. Irene sits on the sofa, clad in grey trousers and a festive scarlet blouse. At her feet is Nero, vibrating with happiness. A rich profusion of toys is scattered on the floor around him, but he seems most captivated by the wrapping paper and bows. One bow, bright gold, is stuck to his belly. It stands out against the red jumper he’s wearing. 

As Sherlock enters, he looks up and shrieks. “Da!” He holds his hands out, and Sherlock sees that they are sticky with chocolate. Not just happiness causing the vibrations, then: sugar. He would smile at Nero, but then Irene speaks. 

“There you are, sleepyhead. I would have woken you up, but you were snoring so peacefully. We should have waited, but Nero was rather insistent on his presents. When he started trying to eat the bows, I thought it best to give in.” 

Nero, as if in agreement, throws several sheets of torn wrapping paper in the air. He claps his hands together and squeals. Small, chocolatey fingers reach for Sherlock. He picks Nero up, heedless of what those fingers are doing to his bespoke suit. Nero kisses Sherlock’s chin. He’s just learning to kiss, and it’s open-mouthed and sloppy, smelling sweetly of candy and sourly of milk. Sherlock’s eyes prickle warningly, and he puts the boy down. He’s too raw this morning for demonstrations of affection, even from an eight-month-old. 

Nero looks up at Sherlock, his big grey eyes blinking in a confused way. He babbles something in gibberish, but when Sherlock doesn’t respond Nero looks down. He reaches for a toy—not one of the newest ones, but Zoran’s bear. He chews its right leg in a pensive way.

“I hope he gets over this bear fixation,” Irene says. “Or it’s 400 euros on toys, wasted.”

Sherlock remembers the afternoon he and Irene picked out Nero’s gifts. They left the baby with Danica and went to the big toy store in the new part of town, near the theater. After, they left the packages in the car and went to a movie. Irene had wanted to see the new adaptation of _Heart of Darkness,_ but Sherlock talked her out of it. They went to _Skyfall_ instead, which was absurd but not actively traumatizing.

Overall, it was a good day. They had gently argued about teething towers and busy boards, like they really were Tibby and Iris. The clerk in the store smirked fondly at them, though he spoke no English and couldn’t understand their arguments. Their performance had seemed that real. 

He looks up to see Irene watching him intently. He smooths his face, controlling his emotions, and she smiles at him. She gets up from the sofa and walks towards him, just like a wife greeting her husband on this happiest of mornings. As she draws closer, he sees the extra bit of warmth in her smile, the satisfaction in her eyes. Last night is written all over her face, and he has to push his control to keep from cringing.

“Happy Christmas, darling,” Irene says, and moves in for a kiss. Sherlock’s control isn’t that good: He flinches before he can even think about it. Her smile flickers. 

“Sherlock?” she says, and reaches for him again. This time he actually takes a step back.

 _“What?”_ She snaps, brows drawing together. “What’s the matter with you?”

Sherlock almost laughs at her. She can’t be serious. But laughter would only make this worse. He wishes he didn’t have to say anything—he is never very eloquent about his feelings. It must be said, however, and he will say it. “I think it’s best if we limit contact for the present.”

Irene is silent, her eyes grey slits. She isn’t going to make this easy for him, that much is clear.

Sherlock forces himself to continue. “Last night was a mistake. It mustn’t happen again.”

“Why not?” Her jaw is set, her mouth a grim scarlet line.

“What we did—” he stops, clenching his hands as he tries to put his tangled feelings into neat sentences. “I’m not proud of my behavior. It was—wrong.”

She rolls her eyes. “Oh, please. It certainly isn’t a standard-issue fetish, darling. But I’ve seen much worse. A little erotic lactation isn’t going to—” she cuts off as Sherlock spins away from her. He walks to the big windows overlooking the terrace. He looks past the terrace to the silver seas beyond. He concentrates on them until the red cloud behind his eyes begins to subside.

He feels Irene close behind him. When he speaks, he doesn’t turn to look at her.

“It was wrong,” he repeats. “Not the act itself perhaps, but the intent. Don’t pretend that it was mere seduction, Irene. You knew what you were doing, and so do I. You won’t infantilize me again. It’s sick.”

 _“I’m_ sick? You came so hard I thought you were having a stroke. This morning I’m still wearing your teeth marks in my tits. You loved it.”

“An orgasm doesn’t prove anything. Certainly not love. You of all people should know that.”

“Oh,” Irene says, after a pause. “There it is. When you can’t think of a real response, call me a whore. You think you’re the first man to do it? I thought you were better than that, Sherlock.”

He turns to face her. Irene is flushed, her eyes shiny with anger. Her mad-face is so much like her sex-face that Sherlock blinks at the sight of it. But he shouldn’t be surprised. Irene’s rage and her libido come from a very similar place. Possibly the same place.

“I bring it up because it’s relevant,” he says. “I’m not one of your clients. You don’t have to dominate me. I don’t expect it, and I don’t want it.”

 _“Dominate you?_ You ungrateful git, I was trying to make you happy. If you weren’t so bloody repressed you would see that.”

“If my happiness is your real concern, then we’ve nothing to quarrel about. I would be happy if nothing like last night ever happened again.”

“And if that doesn’t make me happy?” Irene says softly. “If I still want you?”

“Then we have a problem. Because I do see things clearly. Sexually speaking, you like men as much as I like women. That is, not very much at all. What you want from men is their pain. It’s better than a climax—it _is_ your climax. I thought you’d gotten past that fetish, but I see now that you haven’t.”

He shakes his head sadly. “If you just wanted sex, you’d go to a woman. It would be so easy—Danica is right there. A plump blonde Slavic girl, made to order. Last night wasn’t about sex, it was about power. You enjoyed turning me into a mewling, suckling whelp. It was impressively done. The planning it must have taken, and the expense—you tracked down a missing Strad just to breach my defenses. I would admire your cunning if I weren’t so intimately involved. But I am involved, and admiration isn’t what I feel. I’m disgusted with myself and disappointed with you. To find out that nothing has changed, even after Nero—”

Sherlock stops. He turns back to the window. When he speaks his voice breaks a little, but he lets her hear it. She needs to hear. “I thought _you_ were better than that. I truly did.”

For a few minutes she is silent. The room is silent except for the sound of Nero rustling about. When Sherlock is able to turn around again, Irene is sitting cross-legged on the floor, near the baby. Nero is fiddling with one of his busy boxes. It consists of a yellow spiral tower that is fitted on a green base with various slots. The point is to drop one of three red balls into the chute in the tower and watch them go down, down, into one of the slots. Nero concentrates upon this simple lesson in cause-and-effect like Hawking working out the mysteries of the universe. The toy is rather advanced, more appropriate for a toddler, but Sherlock argued passionately for it at the store. The boy can’t learn too soon about the consequences of simple actions.

They both watch Nero put the balls into the chute, see them go down, down, scoop them up and do it all over again. Even to adult eyes the action is calming, almost hypnotic. So much so that Sherlock is startled when Irene speaks.

“You’ve never asked why I called him Nero,” she says. Her voice is so quiet, her expression so calm and unaccusing, that Sherlock is able to approach her again. He sits on the arm of the sofa.

“It is an unusual name,” he says. “But I know you appreciate classical things. Nero was one of the more colorful Roman figures.”

“I like mythology. I don’t give a damn about the history. All those greedy emperors bossing everyone about. Augustus was the worst of the lot—I mean, he literally thought he and Julius Caesar were gods! But the rest were almost as bad.”

Sherlock could point out that post-mortem deification was a standard political gambit in those days. Unlikely that Caesar Augustus thought he and his Uncle Julius were literally divine. But Irene is obviously going somewhere with this, so he stays silent.

“Roman names are common in my father’s family,” Irene says. There’s something grudging in the way she says it, as if Sherlock has forced a confession.

“Your real name is Roman?” he asks, interested. 

“Iris is my real name,” she says. “But I’m not named after the goddess of the rainbow. My mother was a great admirer of Iris Tree. A bohemian and an adventuress: It’s not surprising. They knew each other a bit when Briony—that’s Mum—was young. At least, that’s what she said. You could never be sure she was speaking the truth. But she told lovely stories.”

“So your mother was an adventuress . . . ” Sherlock trails off uncertainly. He feels like he’s stepping on unstable ground, feeling for every foothold.

Irene raises her eyes from her son. “My mother was a whore,” she says. “Like me.” 

Sherlock has no idea what to say. It feels like every foothold is now shaky. After a moment, Irene gives a grimace and goes on. 

“I suppose if you were feeling generous you could call her a courtesan. She knew some very powerful men in her time. She knew them very well. My father was one of them. Though he wasn’t so powerful when they met, just rich. I suppose it amounts to the same thing in the end.”

“They had an affair?” Sherlock realizes it’s a ridiculous question as soon as he asks. Of course they did. He’s talking to the evidence of it.

But Irene shrugs and says, “Not immediately. He approached Bri about some work he wanted done. Using her influence, finding things out—as I said, she had the attention of some powerful people. Amazing what men say in bed even when they should know better. It was a business arrangement, but finally she seduced him, too. Every man, no matter how cold and superior, has a weakness. My mother was the one who taught me that.

“When she got pregnant, at first he didn’t believe it was his. I suppose you can’t blame him. But DNA testing was just becoming possible in the early ‘80s. Not everyone would have had access to the technology, but he did. The results were unmistakable. I was his daughter.”

Irene is silent so long, Sherlock prods her with the obvious. “He didn’t acknowledge you.”

“No,” she says with a twisted grin. “He paid Bri off and went on his merry way. Quite a nice sum—I inherited some of it after she died in a car accident 11 years ago. She was fellating her 20-year-old lover and he lost control of the Jag. I suppose there are worse ways to go. Anyway, I didn’t know _he_ was my father until my mother died. She’d told me she wasn’t sure who it was, but I found the papers for the settlement among her things. Then I knew. I went to see him.”

She looks at Sherlock’s expression and rolls her eyes. “Yes, it was bloody stupid! I was very stupid when I was 19. I thought—I don’t know what I thought. Maybe he’d think of me fondly? I am his daughter. I assumed it meant he’d feel something. Some slight—warmth. Of course he didn’t.” She gives a sound that’s supposed to be laughter, but it comes out as a shuddering sigh. “You know, if he had been angry or embarrassed, I could have understood. Those are reactions normal humans have. But it wasn’t how he was at all.”

Irene pauses, rescuing one of Nero’s red balls from where it’s rolled under the sofa. She gives it back to the baby with a doting look. “We can get angry with our children, can’t we? We can be embarrassed by them. I was, the day Nero smeared himself with poo while we were shopping in Old Town. I understand that reaction. What I can’t understand is feeling nothing. It’s what my father feels for me. The day I tracked him down at the Savoy Grill, he made it obvious. He’s a very cold man, my father. Very scary.”

“He threatened you?”

“Not in so many words. His kind are too careful for that. But he made it clear that if I ever tried to contact him again, if I ever made our connection public, there would be consequences. Fatal ones. Then he went back to eating his chop. I sat there a minute —I was literally too stunned to move—but he didn’t look up again. He had already dismissed me in his mind, so it was like I didn’t exist. Finally I managed to get up and get out.” She pauses, frowning. “I’ve never been back to the Savoy. I couldn’t eat there if I was starving.” 

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock says, and means it. “Perhaps—perhaps it wasn’t really about you. Some men are not paternal.”

“Oh, he is. I have a half-sister. A legitimate one. I’ve never spoken to her—I’m not an idiot—but I’ve heard stories. He protects her like she’s a Vestal Virgin. It’s not that he doesn’t want to be a father. He doesn’t want to be my father. He knows what I did for a living. He knew even before all the scandals. But what you said in Mumbai was right: He doesn’t care. I’m sure he didn’t care when he heard they cut my head off. He was probably relieved.” 

Sherlock sits transfixed. He looks at the expensive leather of the sofa, but he doesn’t really see it. It’s just a blank canvas. What he’s seeing are names, dates, connections, drawn in glowing characters on the smooth white surface. Like cracking a code, but one more interesting than a doomed flight’s number. A tragedy which strikes closer to home.

“Wolfe,” he says when he returns to the world. “That’s your father’s name, too.” 

“Clever boy,” Irene replies. “I wondered if you would put it together. I should have known.”

“Your father is Julius Siviter, the Wolf,” Sherlock says slowly. The knowledge removes any doubt that her story is true. He’s met Jools. The man is quite capable of threatening his natural daughter with death. It was probably the least disturbing thing he did that day. Also, there’s the physical resemblance. The same piercing eyes and pointed cheekbones.

“Why are you telling me this now?” he asks. “Is it an explanation?”

“Of my wicked ways? You don’t need that. You figured me out a long time ago. I don’t want your pity. Or if I do, it’s not for myself.” She puts a fond hand on Nero’s curls. He shakes her off with a pout and goes back to his entrancing game. “He’s already getting independent,” she says with a sad smile. “Like father like son—I know what you’re planning.”

“What?”

“Don’t play innocent. Two things you can’t fool a whore about: when you want to come, and when you want to go. You’ve probably wanted to leave since you arrived. Were you planning to reveal yourself before you saw the baby? I bet you weren’t. You cared about my well-being, but not enough to let me know that you were alive. How cold, Sherlock! But I’m not surprised. I know who _your_ father was, too.” Before he can even blink at this, she rushes on.

“I’m asking you to stay. Not for me, for your boy. Don’t do what my father did to me, and what yours must have done to you. Your mum, too—a fetish like yours doesn’t come from nowhere. You’re not a happy person any more than I am. But we’ve made a person together. Right now, Nero is happy. We can be Tibby and Iris, we can leave the past in the past. We don’t have to fuck him up like our parents fucked us up. That’s worth some sacrifices, don’t you think?” 

Irene reaches forward, grabbing his wrist. He doesn’t pull away. He wants to, but he doesn’t. 

“I didn’t find the Strad to seduce you,” she says. “It wasn’t just a sick power game. I know you don’t really want me, but that doesn’t mean I can’t want you. You have to remember, games are what I know. They’re how I’ve spent my life. After a while, every gesture, no matter how sincere, looks like one. It’s so hard to change. I’m trying, darling. If you want to spend the next 20 years living like brother and sister, we can. If you want to leave Budva entirely, we can do that. I’m bored here anyway, and there’s not one decent school for Nero. We can go where you like, but we must go together. You must stay. It will kill me if you don’t.”

Irene’s face is flushed. Not with anger now, sincerity. Everything in her words radiates truth. But he doesn’t trust her. After last night, he can’t. But it may have really been a mistake. He doesn’t want to punish his son for his mother’s weakness. That would be too much like Siger.

She releases Sherlock. She picks up Nero. Before Sherlock can move, she has pushed the boy into his arms. Nero wraps his hot, sticky little hands around Sherlock’s neck. 

“Don’t say anything,” she says. “Take Nero for his airing, he hasn’t had one today. Be with your son and think about it. He’ll be a gifted boy. With his genetics, he can hardly help it. More than most children, he’ll need real guidance. He needs his father.” 

Irene rises from the sofa. She makes as if she’s going to leave the room, when suddenly she stops. She turns back to him. When she speaks, her voice is soft. But her eyes are hard and cold. Absolutely focused. A pitiless hunter using the last and most deadly shot in her quiver.

“I know where your heart is. I know who you’re still thinking of. If you weren’t thinking of him, you would talk about him. You’re still in love with him. But your life with John is over, Sherlock. You must see it— _you_ ended it. Now you have a new life, a new chance.” 

She pauses. “The man your son will become, it’s up to you. Remember, Jim Moriarty came from somewhere.”

Irene hurries from the room as if she doesn’t want to hear any reply. But she could have stayed there forever. Sherlock is totally dumbstruck.


	27. Chapter 27

** Sherlock, 2012 (cont.) **

In summertime, Becici Beach is infested with tourists. They swarm by the hundreds under the bright beach umbrellas; they pollute the air with Europop and the sands with cigarette butts and soda cans. They preen, splashing, in the vivid blue waters, or parade their brown, naked flesh on the seaside promenade. They berate the hotel waiters bringing cocktails, they leave a scummy slick of suntan oil in the beachfront pools. An awful place in summer, Becici Beach.

But in winter, Sherlock rather likes it. The tourists have departed like locusts seeking fresher fields, going north to St. Moritz or south to Barbados. At last, Budva can rest in peace. The pebbly sands of Becici are clean and empty, the air is quiet. There isn’t a waiter or a parasailer in sight. The water isn’t blue but grey, reflecting cloudy skies. There are no chairs or umbrellas but you can sit, drawing your coat around you, enjoying the salt wind blowing from the Adriatic. 

Sherlock has come here often in the past two months. He’s never brought Nero, the baby’s daily constitutional being supervised by Irene. He’s aware of the manipulation in her suggestion that he bring the baby today. She wasn’t exactly subtle. Her last words echo in his mind as he walks down the road that leads from the villa to the beach, pushing Nero in his stroller. Another of Irene’s extravagances, an 800-euro contraption so sturdy it seems equally capable of sheltering the baby from cold winds and stray bullets. Its big wheels move smoothly over the rough terrain. 

Inside, Nero is swaddled in an ivory fleece coverall. Its hood has round felt ears meant to make the wearer appear more adorable, a needless embellishment as far as Nero is concerned. The boy has a melting effect on women, and not just his mother and Danica. In the summer months his stroller was regularly besieged in Old Town, as women of all ages and races bent over him, cooing in half-a-dozen languages. 

Sherlock was not a charming baby, if Mycroft’s account is credible. Silent and sickly, he did not inspire warmth in passing females. In charm, Nero is again like Ford. One of life’s ironies, that the eldest Holmes brother can so effortlessly infatuate a sex he hasn’t the slightest physical attraction to. It has, however, proven helpful in his career—he’s known for having a deft touch with actresses. Violet was always half in love with him, before and after she married Victor. One more motive for her two-year dalliance with Sherlock. He isn’t nearly as handsome as Ford, but there is a certain resemblance. When the lights were low it must have been easy to pretend.

When Sherlock rouses himself from this reverie, he finds that he has made it all the way to the seaside promenade. A wide walk elevated 20 feet above the beach, it’s defined on one side by a tall stone wall. Long ago this was part of the city’s defenses, helping to fend off encroaching Ottomans and Austro-Hungarians. These days it’s used for advertising. 

At present, there is a very striking series of ads on the wall. Alongside the ones for luxury hotel suites and expensive watches is a film poster which can’t help but catch the eye. It’s repeated several times on this stretch of the wall, ensuring that you can never put it out of your mind. 

On the poster is a primitive drawing of a skull rendered in sullen but brilliant tones. Behind the skull are splashes of orange and azure, and the skull itself is outlined in slashes of black, filled in with dabs of burnt sienna and chrome yellow. The teeth of the skull are broken, its eyes are red and leering. Beneath the skull are names: HUXLEY—OLDMAN—FASSBENDER. Above the skull is the only title that could explain everything else on the poster: HEART OF DARKNESS.

The first time he saw the poster, Sherlock didn’t need to read the text. He knew it was his brother’s film the moment he recognized the Basquiat skull. He hasn’t read the reviews, as he avoids the web these days. But Irene, who is on the web often, told him that the production of the film caused a stir. Apparently, Ford had completed what was supposed to be the final cut this spring. In late summer, however, he recalled the principal actors and engaged in expensive last-minute reshoots. The results were disturbing. The source material would have ensured that even the first version was dark, but Ford’s second edit was so bleakly violent it nearly earned the film an NC-17 rating. The main point of contention was a ritual sacrifice scene, in which the young Russian sailor is slowly beaten to death during a single endless shot, his head reduced to pulp, a puddle of viscous red oozing from his under his dark curls, his grey eyes blank and staring . . .

Ford wouldn’t cut one second of the scene. Somehow, he still got his R-rating. Unsurprising, as there are few things he wants that Ford doesn’t get. But Sherlock won’t be seeing the evidence of his brother’s triumph. He hasn’t watched one of Ford’s pictures since _The Shadow Son,_ but even if he still viewed them as faithfully as he once did, he wouldn’t watch _Heart of Darkness._ Sherlock knows why Ford was so attached to the sacrifice, a scene which doesn’t even appear in the original novella. The knowledge made Sherlock talk Irene into seeing _Skyfall,_ absurd as that film was bound to be. He didn’t trust himself to control his face during the whole three hours of _Heart of Darkness,_ and Irene is observant. She doesn’t know about Ford, and Sherlock wants to keep it that way. Too many secrets attend his brother’s true identity. 

Ford didn’t come to the funeral. One can’t know this for certain, but Sherlock would bet all his remaining funds on it. Ford wouldn’t come to the family plot and stand at Mycroft’s side; it’s not his way. What feelings he had over Sherlock’s death went into the second cut of _Heart of Darkness._ That is Ford’s way, to turn everything into fiction, create another fake world that he can control. He didn’t mourn his baby brother but he did memorialize him, in his fashion. 

_Another storyteller,_ Sherlock thinks, turning from the poster. _I’m fucking sick of them._

He quickly pushes Nero away from the wall, taking them down the ramp to the beach proper. 

When they get to the sands, Sherlock parks the stroller so it’s facing the water. Nero should take in the view while he can, for who knows how much longer they will be here? The baby chews on the leg of his bear while his wide eyes are fixed first on the grey skies, alive with hardy winter birds, then on the silver seas, empty except for a single yacht far in the distance. Some Russian millionaire, no doubt. In the summer they’re more common than seagulls.

Sherlock sits beside the stroller, drawing his coat tighter against the wind. While Nero watches and chews, Sherlock tries to think. He recalls Irene’s last speeches. They’ll be inscribed in her wing of the memory palace for future perusal, but right now they’re so fresh he doesn’t have to exert any effort to remember exactly what she said, and how her face looked when she said it.

_We can go where you like, but we must go together. You must stay. It will kill me if you don’t._

She does love him. That’s the hell of the thing. But it doesn’t change his feelings for her. He knows the source of their mutual attraction. If he didn’t quite realize before, after last night it’s obvious. You don’t have to remember your mummy to suffer from mummy issues. Daddy threatening to kill you doesn’t mean you stop wanting his attention.

Sherlock refusing to love Irene isn’t coldness but self-awareness. He knows why he wants her, and he knows it’s wrong. But she won’t admit to a similarly unhealthy inspiration for her own emotions, which is why his decision in Mumbai was correct. They should not be together.

For here’s what’s going to happen, what has already been happening. You may still want your mummy desperately, but you also hate her for leaving you. You can’t trust her or any woman like her. You hurt women like her, given half a chance. You eviscerate them in limousines and ruin their marriages. You crack their camera phones and feed them to the lions. You may rescue them later from a sense of guilt, but you enjoyed doing the initial damage. You really did.

If Daddy wants to kill you, and you are a woman of intelligence and a certain ruthlessness, you don’t simply slink out of the restaurant and leave him the field. You can’t contact him directly, but you can still bring yourself to his notice. You seduce and ruin as many men like him as you can. You make sure that he knows what you’re doing. And when you can’t do it anymore, you concentrate your efforts. You find one man, _The_ Man, to pay for the sins of all the rest.

Love can take many forms. It can be nourishing or toxic. If he stays with Irene, she’ll poison his life. She’ll never stop trying to seduce him, she’ll never stop trying to wound him. Sherlock, if not able to take the sane and sensible path and separate himself from her, will wound right back. In the most subtle, inventive, and merciless ways, they will slowly annihilate each other. Who will be the ultimate victor? Nobody. The only possible outcome is mutually assured destruction.

They can never be Tibby and Iris. It’s ridiculous to believe otherwise. That Irene does believe it is more proof of her essential sickness. Sherlock won’t be party to her disease. Not anymore.

“Waaaaaaa-aaaaaaa!” 

He is startled from his thoughts by Nero, flailing in his stroller. It takes Sherlock a moment to realize what’s wrong: Nero has lost his bear. The little toy lies in the sand, close enough that the baby can see it but frustratingly out of reach.

“Waaaaaaa-aaaaaaa!”

Quickly, Sherlock picks up the bear before Nero works himself into a full tantrum. He brushes off the sand clinging to the bear and puts it back in Nero’s dimpled hands. Instantly, the baby calms. Tears still drying, he grins at Sherlock as he chews the bear’s leg.

Such a strange toy to infatuate Nero. It’s not expensive like the ones he got this morning; it’s not even very attractive. Just a dull beige thing, small and squat, its one striking feature the ability to accept persistent abuse and never lose its smile. But it’s the one thing dear to Nero’s heart. He played dutifully enough with the other toys, but Sherlock suspects you could box them up and toss them in the sea, and the boy wouldn’t care. Just give him his bloody bear and leave him be.

Sherlock reaches out, touching the bear. Careful not to dislodge it from Nero’s grip, he runs a finger over the toy’s cheerful stitched smile. He straightens its one piece of clothing, a blue and brown striped jumper, cheap and rather ugly. He sees his son’s dazzling, gummy grin and sighs.

“I understand,” he says. “I really do.” The name on Nero’s birth certificate doesn’t matter: The boy is a Holmes. He knows what he wants. If he can’t have it, he won’t be happy with anything. He’ll make the whole world suffer for his lack, scream his unhappiness to the skies.

Sherlock feels like screaming. He doesn’t blame Nero, though the fact of Nero’s existence makes a clear solution to Sherlock’s troubles impossible. Seventeen months ago, he could leave Irene in a hotel suite and take a plane back home. He can’t do that now. Even if he could return to London, he can’t leave Nero to his mother’s tender mercies. She’s a good parent at present, as narcissists often are when their children are infants. What about when Nero is two, and he really begins asserting his needs and desires? What about when he’s 18 or 20 and wants to leave her? 

No, he can’t leave Nero to face that alone. Perhaps it would be best if he took Nero away right now, but he knows Irene would never stop looking for them. Even if she did, does he want to rip his son from his mother’s arms, as he was ripped from Violet’s? Isn’t a narcissistic, unstable mother better than no mother at all? 

Sherlock could make Irene more stable. If he gave in to her, if he let himself be seduced. If she owned him, the void inside her might be filled enough that she could be content. Sherlock won’t be, bereft of everything important to him, even his own name. But if he could commit to being Tiberius Wolfe, truly commit—for Irene would accept nothing less—he might save his son. 

It has already been a year of sacrifices. Does he have the strength for one more? 

If it were John asking him to give up everything, Sherlock could do it gladly. Though John would not ask, and that’s the point. He could give John his heart—though John never knew—because John would never make a claim on Sherlock’s soul. John, who at times seemed so lonely, so eager for Sherlock’s approval. Seducing him might have been shockingly easy. Sherlock worked it out more than once, lying in his bedroom late at night. What he could do, how he would speak and look to penetrate John’s defenses bit by bit. He _could_ have done it.

But he didn’t. He loved him, so he didn’t force that kind of change on him. It’s not right to manipulate those you love. Siger thought otherwise, and he died divorced. Mycroft and Ford followed in Father’s footsteps, and they are more bereft. They’ve never had spouses to lose.

Sherlock hates Irene a little for her manipulations. In truth, more than a little. Right now, he could strangle her for ensnaring him like this. He won’t, of course. But to give her what she wants, reward her schemes: It scalds him to the core to consider it. 

He can’t kill her and he can’t marry her. What is he to do? If he does marry her, how will he mask his resentment? It worries him, the solution he might find. It’s not a long trip from that kind of anger to the syringe. Not long at all.

“Da!”

He looks over at Nero, who despite possession of the bear has grown restless. The look on his face is familiar, both thwarted and impatient. Can he be hungry again already? Then Sherlock glances at his watch and sees that they’ve been here over an hour. It’s definitely hunger, then. He reaches into one of the bag’s commodious pockets and finds a small bag of cereal—Irene thinks of these things—but he knows it’s only a temporary measure. The boy needs his mother.

He gives Nero the cereal, watching him gumming the oaty O’s with unrestrained delight. He’s such a lovely boy, round and rosy, his big eyes full of late morning light. A lovely boy, _his_ boy! 

It hits Sherlock then, a heart-squeezing epiphany that freezes him in place. His true feelings for his son. Irene was right: Of course Sherlock would love his child, which is why he won’t leave him. Irene knew that when he arrived five months ago. She knew it in Mumbai.

If he’d known she was a Siviter, he wouldn’t have touched her. They’re all wolves, that family. Once they get their teeth in something, they don’t let go. Irene never intended to let Sherlock go. Not in London, not in Mumbai, and certainly not now. 

_Kill her or marry her,_ a voice—Mycroft’s voice—whispers in his ear. _Someday soon, you will have to make the choice._

He won’t make it today. The wind is picking up and Nero has almost finished his small snack. Time to go home, before his demanding offspring starts screaming. Think about future plans on another day, when it isn’t Christmas. Nothing is going to happen today.

He tucks Nero more securely into his stroller and wheels him to the ramp. As he walks along the promenade towards home, he sees all of Ford’s skulls again. Their broken smiles are both cruel and wise. They seem to watch him with their red eyes. Eyes that have looked into the heart of darkness for far too long, and know what monsters will emerge from it.  


* * *

When Sherlock sees the dead dogs, he knows that something is very wrong.

At first he thought Minerva and Diana were just sleeping, as they often do at this time of day. But the dogs don’t sleep on cold concrete, and they don’t lie there like two black statues when they hear Sherlock, with his pocketful of dog biscuits, approaching. 

His second thought—his hope—was that the dogs were drugged. They are not guard dogs; Di and Minnie are eager to be friends with anyone. It would have been easy to feed them spiked treats, limit the carnage a little. The fact that the friendly Labs were killed as they approached the visitors, shot dead at point-blank range, gives Sherlock some idea of what he’s dealing with.

He bends over the dogs. He looks into Minerva’s eyes, their bright amber irises gone cloudy with death. He kneels frozen for a moment, his pulse roaring in his ears. Then, all at once, his paralysis breaks. He jumps up and turns to the stroller. Acting on a deduction that is mostly hopeful thinking, he thoroughly searches the many pockets of the contraption.

He finds what he’s looking for in the back pocket, shoved all the way at the bottom. A cold, heavy weight quite different from the bags of snacks and extra blankets. He takes out the gun and inspects it. Another of Irene’s Glocks, identical to three hidden in the house. She never told Sherlock about this one, but he isn’t shocked to learn she’s been taking Nero for his airings while fully armed. Irene’s liminal existence has taught her the importance of protection, if not caution.

Sherlock looks at the house. He feels another stab of adrenaline when he notices that two of the lounge windows are shattered. They don’t have an alarm system, as Irene doesn’t trust the local authorities. Nobody is coming. All they have are three—four—guns, hidden in strategic locales. 

_I hope you were cautious after all,_ Sherlock thinks. _I hope you’re hiding or at least negotiating. I hope you didn’t try to brazen your way through. That you just gave them what they wanted—money, jewelry, the fucking Strad which probably brought them here. For once, Irene, I hope you didn’t try to take on the whole world._

Sherlock hears footsteps behind him. He spins around, his fingers curled, a second from blinding his attacker with a vicious jab, when he sees who it is. He stops with his hand millimeters from her round blue eyes.

“What are you doing here?” he hisses, dropping his hand.

“I bring food!” Danica snaps, taking a step back and indicating her basket. “For Christmas Day! Are you crazy?”

Then she sees the dead dogs, and she blanches. She brings one hand up to her mouth. The sight of them seems to have robbed her of her English. She mutters something in Serbian—it could be a curse or a prayer—then she looks at Sherlock. She looks at the gun in his hand. Her mouth is trembling, and her eyes have become suspicious slits. She takes another step back.

“I didn’t do this,” Sherlock says. “Do you really think—I took the baby for a walk!”

Danica looks down at the stroller, and the sight of Nero seems to calm her. She approaches again. “Who do this?” she demands.

“I don’t know,” Sherlock says. “But they may still be here. Irene—Iris—she’s in the house.” 

“We help,” Danica says, and starts to run, but he grips her shoulder before she takes a full step.

“I’ll go,” he says. “You stay here with the baby.”

“But—”

He grips both of her shoulders now, looking into her face. “Listen to me,” he says. “You are not a fool, Danica Cvetković. You can listen, even if you hate me. There are people in that house. People with guns. They killed the dogs for no reason. They shattered two big windows when they could have just broken the pane in the front door. They’re cruel and audacious: They like to destroy things. I have to go in there and see what they’ve done to Mrs. Wolfe. You’re right, she must need help. I can help her, but she won’t have my full attention if I’m worrying about our son. If things go bad, I need to know that you’ll take Nero away. Can you do it?”

After a moment, Danica nods slowly. She puts one hand on the stroller, and Sherlock feels the steel string of tension behind his eyes slacken a bit. 

He puts his hand in his coat pocket. He takes out his mobile and brings up the camera function. He kneels by the stroller and, careful to get both himself and Nero in the shot, takes a picture. Then he brings up the directory.

The phone is Tibby Wolfe’s. There is nothing in there to indicate that it belongs to anyone else. Except for one number. He hesitated before programming it in, but in the end he did it anyway. He hoped he’d never have to use it, but Sherlock has also learned something about preparation. Caution, too. This number belongs to the most cautious man in the world. 

He looks at Danica, who has been silently watching all of his movements. “If I’m not out in 30 minutes, take the baby to your house,” he tells her. “If I don’t come to your house by tomorrow morning, call this number.” He shows her the one in his directory. “Tell the man who answers that you have his brother’s baby. He won’t believe you. Forward him this picture.”

“Then what?” 

“Then do nothing. Keep the phone on and wait. He’ll find you. He’ll take Nero off your hands and give you a large sum of money. My brother is generous that way.”

Danica stares at him. For once her face is not hostile. Her expression is almost sad. “Who are you?” she says. “You are not professor. Mrs. Wolfe is not professor’s wife. Are you?”

“The less you know, the safer you will be,” Sherlock says. “Just take the baby.” He looks down at the gun in his hand, then holds it out. “Take this too. If anyone comes near you in the next 30 minutes, shoot at him. You don’t have to hurt him, but let him know that you could. Then run to your little car and drive away, fast as you can. Will you do that?”

Danica puts down her basket. “I shoot him,” she says, sticking out her chin. “If he come for Nero, I kill him.” She takes the gun and slides back the safety. She checks the magazine, sees it’s full of bullets, and nods with grim satisfaction. She looks at Sherlock, eyes calm and hard. 

“Mrs. Wolfe was right after all,” Sherlock says. “You are very good, Danica.”

“No more talk,” she says. “Go get her.” 

Sherlock hesitates one more moment. He puts his hand on Nero’s. The baby holds Sherlock’s fingers, his grip warm and surprisingly strong. His grey eyes gaze up at his father with solemn focus. They are too much like Irene’s eyes—Sherlock has to look away. He has to concentrate. He disengages himself from his son and turns towards the house.

“My brother will look after him,” Sherlock says, more to himself than to Danica. Then, with an inward flex, he cuts off the emotions clouding his mind. He _will_ concentrate. 

He goes in the side door of the house. He turns his key in the lock very gently, ears pricked for any noise from inside, but all he hears is silence. He walks into the kitchen, looks around, and quickly goes to the shiny chrome cookie jar on the counter. Under a plastic bag of oatmeal raisin is another Glock, plus an extra clip of bullets. He puts both in his pocket and replaces the lid on the jar. Then he listens for a moment.

There is water running upstairs. 

He goes through the archway leading to the lounge. He hesitates a moment, looking around. Half of Nero’s toys are still scattered on the floor. Half are arranged in the toy chest. On the sofa table is one more toy, a teething tower of rainbow-colored plastic rings. Beside that, on the floor, is a broken vase of orchids. The blooms are trampled. Small depressions—spike heels.

 _She comes back to the lounge to pick up the toys. She’s half done when she sees the men coming towards the windows. She drops the teething tower and turns quickly, knocking over the vase of orchids. Too panicked to care, she tramples on the flowers as she runs upstairs. She should have run for the kitchen, out the side door, grabbing the Glock as she goes. But she didn’t._

Very quietly, he climbs the stairs. He pauses on the landing to the second floor, but he doesn’t bother with his room and bath. Irene did not go there. On the third floor, he sees a table in the hallway knocked askew from the wall. Several big, muddy footprints are on the polished white tiles. A chip is out of the door frame from where someone tall ran into it.

_The men are right on her heels, knocking into furniture and walls as they go. Irene flees towards her bedroom. There's another Glock there, in the armoire. She wants that gun—her favorite gun. If she can get the gun, she can shoot them. Self-defense: She won’t hesitate._

The white sofa in Irene’s room is spotted with red. The cushions show deep depressions. The sofa table is overturned, the violin case lies on the floor. The door of the armoire hangs open. 

_The men enter just as she grabs the gun. She jerks it off the shelf, flicks the safety and fires. She hits one man. He stumbles into the sofa, knocking over the table and all its contents. He doesn’t care about the Stradivarius case—he doesn’t even know what it is. He’s bleeding and in pain. He kneels there, screaming at his companions to finish the bitch, finish her already—_

Bullet holes in the wall by the door. Droplets of blood on the pale paint, a few more on the floor. On the floor by the bed is the bedroom Glock, still a little warm to the touch. 

On the bed is—

 _Irene fires again. She hits one of the others, but it’s only a graze. He and his companion charge her before she can get off another round. They wrest the gun from her hands and kick it away. They throw her on the bed and the unwounded man gets on top of her. The lightly wounded man, bleeding but still determined, holds her shoulders. The first man takes out a large knife. He—_

Irene’s throat has been cut from ear to ear. The wound is so deep that you can see the striations of red flesh, full of so many vulnerable veins and arteries. Jugular external and internal, thyroid, left and right carotid. The base of her tongue has been cut loose, larynx and vocal chords sliced clean through. She would have stopped screaming when they cut those. Only a few final puffs of useless air as the life gushed out of her. Her scarlet blouse is darker now, soaked black with blood. The white duvet under her is one big puddle of red.

They cut so deep, they almost cut her head off. Not thinking clearly, Sherlock tries to support her neck a little—as if it would make any difference now—and her head falls even further back. Sherlock sees the white bones of her two upper vertebrae and dashes off the bed. He kneels on the floor, putting his face between his knees and breathing deeply. The world tilts sideways as a thought screams through his mind, over and over, like a madman screaming to the skies.

_still warm her body is still warm she’s been dead minutes just minutes—_

Sherlock hears muffled voices. 

What happens after that takes only seconds, but it seems to take forever. Sherlock feels like he is moving slowly, writhing like a man caught under water, as he grabs the bedroom Glock from the floor. He jumps up, pointing the gun towards the door of the bath as it slowly opens.

Two men emerge. One is big and hearty, chattering excitedly to his companion in what sounds like Serbian. The other, smaller one is holding a handtowel to his left bicep. The white cloth is spotted with blood, but not much. Just a superficial wound, nothing fatal. He’ll be fine.

Sherlock shoots him in the head. Blood and skull fragments spray the air and the big man jerks around, hand going to the gun at his hip. But everything is moving slowly, so slowly. Sherlock seems to have hours to take aim and fire again. He shoots the big man in the chest, spinning him around. Sherlock puts another bullet in his back. The man lies motionless on the floor.

He walks around the bed and stands over the smaller man. His brains are leaking onto the tiles, but his body is still twitching. Sherlock fires twice into what’s left of his skull, and the man stills.

 _Three men. There were three._ Gripping the gun tight, he steps over the threshold to the bath.

He sees the man in the tub. He would have noticed this second blood trail before now, had he not been distracted. The man in the tub was shot in the shoulder. He’s older than the other two, with a craggy face and grey hair. He must have been the leader. Irene’s victim—good for her. She got one of them at least. While his companions murdered her, this one bled out. 

_Very dangerous, shoulder wounds,_ Sherlock thinks. _John’s almost killed him._

Suddenly, the underwater feeling breaks. Sherlock drops the Glock. He runs to the toilet and vomits. He hasn’t eaten since yesterday so there isn’t much on his stomach, but he heaves up what he can. Then he flushes, splashes water on his face, and walks back into the bedroom. 

He should leave, but he can’t. He stops by the bed. He shouldn’t look again, but he must.

Irene’s sightless eyes stare into the equally blank gaze of the Lempicka portrait over the bed. There is no question this time. No faceless corpse of questionable origin, no faked DNA or rumors and misinformation. Irene Adler is dead. 

Sherlock wishes he could say something, a prayer or a benediction. But he couldn’t speak now if someone held the Glock to his head. Instead, he reaches out a hand. He passes it gently over her face, closing her eyes. He pulls the duvet over her body so she is covered. He leaves the room and does not look behind him.


	28. Chapter 28

** Sherlock, 2012 (cont.) **

He’s at the bottom of the stairs when he hears shots from outside. Sherlock starts running.

On the cement of the motor court is the same scene as upstairs, but done in miniature. Another assassin is on the pavement, holding his knee and cursing. This man is younger than the others, skinny and scared. Danica stands over him, brandishing her gun.

 _“Govno yedno!”_ she screeches. _“Ja ću da te ubijem!”_ She hears Sherlock approaching and jerks her head in his direction, but the Glock never wavers from her quarry. “I kill him!” she screams. “I tell him I kill him and I will!” 

“Give me the gun, Danica,” Sherlock says. 

_“Popusis mi kurac krasni!”_ she hisses. 

Sherlock has been in Budva long enough to know what that means, but he’s too exhausted to suck her dick, even if she had one. He sighs and says, “If you kill him, we can’t question him.” They must question somebody, and this one seems to be the only one left.

“What does this _sisadzijo_ know?” Danica says, with a violent kick to the man’s wounded knee. He screams and makes as if to lunge at her, but Danica shoves the gun in his face. _“Pokušajte to da uradite. Želim da pokušam!”_ Her eyes flick back to Sherlock. “I tell him to come at me. I want him to try it!”

“If we don’t question him, we can’t find out what he knows. Where was he, anyway?”

“Garage. He try to steal Mrs. Wolfe’s Mercedes.” A new thought occurs to Danica, and she looks at Sherlock hopefully. “Mrs. Wolfe? Where is she? I hear shots.” 

“Upstairs,” Sherlock says. “In her room.” He pauses. “I shot her attackers.”

“Good.” Danica’s shoulders slump a little in relief. “She come down?”

Carefully, Sherlock takes the gun from Danica’s hand. “Go to the garage and get some rope. We need to tie him.”

“Tiberius,” Danica says, drawing herself up to her full height of five feet. “Does Mrs. Wolfe come down?” Her English is more broken than the fourth assassin's knee, but in this moment the little housekeeper has a strange dignity, tight jeans, blonde braids and all.

Sherlock speaks gently. After all, Danica loved Irene. It’s good that someone here did.

“No,” he says. “She’s not coming down.”

Danica stares at him for a moment, her eyes wide and blue. Then, moving more quickly than Sherlock could have imagined, she rips the gun from his hand. 

“Danica—!”

He reaches for her, but she’s too fast. She shoots the fourth assassin once—twice—in the face. The man slumps to the ground, his features a bloody mass. 

The baby is screaming. Danica drops the gun. She picks up Nero from his stroller.

“Serbian piece of shit,” she tells Sherlock. “He know nothing.”

Nero gives another whimper and she turns around, rocking the baby gently and cooing.

Sherlock’s knees are suddenly not steady. He sits on the ground. He looks at the fresh corpse on the concrete. He looks up at the third floor, where four more bodies are cooling.

He has no idea what these men wanted. He doesn’t know if they have friends who will come for them. He can’t contact the police. If experience has taught him anything, the police don’t help. It was true in London, and it must be doubly true in Montenegro, a place founded by pirates.

He has five corpses—seven if you count the dogs—to dispose of. He has a house full of blood and brains to clean up. He has a crying baby and a lethal maid to contend with. He’s tired and his head aches. He wants to lie on the couch and take a nap. He wants to sob his guts out.

Irene is dead. Her killers, he shot them. Both of them. That doesn’t bother him as much as he thought it would. But his head does ache so. 

He can’t do this. Not alone. He needs help. 

“Where’s my phone?” he says. 

“Left pocket of stroller,” Danica says, still soothing Nero. 

Sherlock heaves himself up from the pavement. He gets his phone from the left pocket and brings up the saved numbers.

He knows the full impact of what he’s about to do. But he hasn’t any choice. If it were only himself, he could flee this house of horrors and let the chips fall. But he has others to think of now, and he needs help. Tidy, cautious, ruthless help.

He taps the number. Five rings—two more than usual—and the voice answers. 

“Who is this?” The voice is calm but guarded. Only six people in the world have this number, his private mobile. This phone never gets calls from strange numbers. Not until now.

Sherlock opens his mouth, but no words come out. 

“Who. Is. This?” The voice repeats. “How did you get this number?” God, he sounds just the same. Calmly irritated, peevishly composed. Just as he did all those years ago, when Sherlock awoke in that Paris hospital room after days in the pits of his own private hell. It’s the voice that used to come to his bedside when Sherlock was five and suffering nightmares. The one that has always, always been there.

Sherlock blinks tears from his eyes. “Mycroft,” he whispers.

Silence. It must be only a minute or two, but it feels as if it goes on for days. It’s so silent, Sherlock can hear a television in the background. The voices on the TV are strange, he can’t make sense of them. Then he realizes they’re not English. Spanish, maybe? No—Italian. 

“Where are you?” Sherlock says, when he can’t bear the silence anymore.

“I’m in Rome,” Mycroft says. “Where are you?” There’s a strange quality to his usually satin-smooth voice. Breathless, a little choked, like a soft hand is around his throat.

“Budva,” Sherlock says. “I need help. Things have gone—very wrong.”

“Have they?” Mycroft gives a strange, uncertain laugh. “My God, Sherlock.” He stops. He laughs again, and there’s a manic edge to it. “Jesus Christ. What have you—my _God.”_

“I know,” Sherlock says. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“Sorry?” The strangled voice is a whiplash now. “You’re _sorry? Va te faire foutre! Tu es complétement faux cul—”_

 _Fuck off! You are so full of shit._ Easy enough to translate those last two phrases. Sherlock wonders if Mycroft even realizes that he switched languages halfway through that sentence. A habit going very far back, to when he and Ford were boys and used to tear each other to pieces in gutter French. The vocabulary was the legacy of an indulgent au pair, and became a neat way of keeping the monolingual Mrs. Thompson from washing their mouths out with soap. Even now, Mycroft is more comfortable being profane in French. Even _now._ Sherlock wants to laugh at this, but it would only make everything that much harder. Instead he just waits patiently, as his brother proceeds to call him every filthy name Anastasie ever taught the two eldest Holmes boys. 

_—vous mentez comme tu respires,_ you sneaking little bastard.” Mycroft stops, panting a little. Sherlock hears his brother take a breath, as if he’s about to say something else, when he’s cut off by another voice, sweet and sleepy.

 _“Torni a letto, amante.”_ The voice is too near. She’s not on the TV. She’s right there, woken from a pleasant doze by Mycroft’s Gallic diatribe. Sherlock is so shocked, it takes him a moment to translate what she said. But he doesn't really need to. Her tone made everything quite clear.

“Is—is there a woman in your bedroom, Mycroft?” 

“You do _not_ interrogate me,” his brother snaps. “Do you understand? I ask the questions here. What the bloody hell is going on?”

 _“Who is it?”_ the woman says, still in Italian. _“What’s wrong, lovey?”_

_“Get dressed. You have to go,”_ Mycroft says to her in his liquid Tuscan accent.

_“Did I do something wrong?”_

_“No. The money is on the bedside table. Remember it on your way out.”_ Sherlock hears the slamming of a door. Mycroft must have taken refuge in the bath while the woman slinks off. Such a shame, she sounded nice. Expensive.

 _Mycroft, please don’t sack your Christmas hooker on my account._ He puts his hand to his mouth to stifle the hysterical giggles. But when Mycroft speaks again, his voice is so cold and clear that it freezes the laughter right out of Sherlock. 

“Molly Hooper,” Mycroft says. “What a clever girl. Quite the actress.” 

“She did what she did at my request,” Sherlock says quickly. “This was all me. If you must be angry at someone—”

“Angry.” Mycroft turns the word over like it’s a bitter lozenge. “No, that doesn’t describe my present feeling. I speak 14 languages, and I don’t know a single word that would cover it.”

Silence again. Over 700 kilometers between them, but Sherlock can hear his brother thinking from here. Mycroft’s mind is working as fast as Sherlock’s ever does, perhaps faster. Adding it all up, assigning blame, working out responses and retaliations with his deadly mental Algebra. But when he finally does reply, it’s not any that Sherlock is expecting. 

“John Watson doesn’t know about this.”

“No.”

“I was just wondering if his current activities were some kind of blind on your behalf, but of course that’s not how his mind works. John isn’t subtle. Though a bludgeon is as deadly as a rapier, isn’t it? Perhaps moreso, in the right hands.”

“His current activities?”

“Oh, he’s been busy. Have you not been on the web these past three months? Don’t you keep up with old acquaintances?” Mycroft’s voice is amused. 

“What is he—”

“Such a shame, when people grow apart. But you can’t blame John. One doesn’t expect to stay in touch with the dearly departed. There isn’t a Facebook for _that.”_

“Mycroft, I swear to God—”

“Shut up,” Mycroft says, his amusement gone like the illusion it always was. “You can’t threaten me. You need me. What do you need?”

Sherlock pauses. “It’s very bad.”

“I know that. You resurrected yourself specifically to beg for my help. How bad is bad?”

He pauses again. Though he knows Mycroft’s phone is more secure than the Bank of England’s gold reserves, Sherlock can’t be sure about his own. Anyone could be listening. Whoever put together today’s deadly ambush is not toying with him. Anything could become ammunition.

“Chapter six of mother’s seventh book. Do you know it?” He doesn’t know if his brother has read all of Violet Vernet’s mysteries or not. Common sense would say no, but Mycroft is not one to spurn data, even of the painful variety. _Dagger of the Mind_ was the closest thing to an action novel that their mother ever wrote. Almost a Bond novel, but with three-dimensional female characters. The domestic massacre in chapter six is, without exception, the bloodiest passage in the Vernet canon. It’s not identical to what happened today, but it’s close enough.

“I see,” Mycroft says. His voice is suddenly quiet. “Are you—all right?”

Sherlock remembers then. The hero of the novel was shot in the thigh at the end of that chapter. He nearly bled to death before his secretary—later his lover—rescued him and bound the wound with her own brassiere. 

“I’m fine,” Sherlock says. “But things are very disordered here. _Messy.”_

“I see,” Mycroft repeats, and then falls silent once more. But Sherlock hears the wheels turning again, churning out plans, scenarios, schemes. When Mycroft returns, his voice is its old, smooth self. He has put his rage away, and whatever feelings accompanied it. He has controlled himself, as he always does. 

“I’ll be there in three hours. Do nothing until I get there. If you are discovered, say nothing to anyone. Do nothing, _say nothing._ Is that clear?”

“Of course. I’m not an idiot. Now what about John—” but the line has gone dead.

Sherlock wants to hurl the phone to the concrete, but he controls himself. He puts it away.

“Baby needs bottle,” Danica says from behind him. “We go in house?”

It’s the last place Sherlock wants to go, but he hasn’t much choice. They drag the body of the last assassin with them, wrapping a stroller blanket around his head so he doesn’t leave a blood trail. Sherlock would like to put him with the others, but he hasn’t the stamina left to carry dead weight up all of those stairs. They put the body in the lounge, behind the sofa where it can’t be easily seen. He sees blood leaking through the blanket, smearing the tiles, but he’s past caring.

Stepping around the broken vase on the floor, he sits on the sofa. Danica goes into the kitchen to heat a bottle for Nero. The baby is quieter now, secure in the arms of his second favorite person in the world. Danica’s movements are fast and distracted. As they entered the house Sherlock saw her look at the ceiling. But she hasn’t said anything more about what lies on the third floor.

Sherlock gives a full-body jerk as he sees movement in the corner of one eye. The kitchen Glock is in his hand instantly, but right before he aims and shoots he hears a soft chirp and freezes.

Faust proceeds into the room. He has been hiding the whole time, in the wise way of cats. He jumps on the sofa and gives Sherlock furious green eyes. _What the bloody hell is going on?_

“They came for Irene,” Sherlock says softly. “She’s dead.”

_That explains all the terrible noise. I hid under your bed until everything was quiet. I heard the dogs barking, but they suddenly stopped. They’re dead, I suppose. Stupid creatures, dogs._

“I shot the killers, Faust. I shot two men.”

 _I killed three rats yesterday._ Vermin, _Sherlock. What else can you do with them?_

Looking supremely unconcerned, Faust turns over on his back, presenting his fluffy belly. Sherlock gives him two desultory strokes and stops, putting his shaking hands on his knees.

 _I suppose that will have to do. Is the serving wench about? I haven’t eaten in ages. Two hours._

Faust jumps off the sofa and strides across the white tiles, towards the kitchen. As he goes, he leaves little red paw prints in his wake. They look like bloody blossoms. He must have looked over the body of the fourth assassin, in the curious way of cats. He sniffed the dead vermin and then went in search of pettings and lunch.

Sherlock puts his hands over his face, wishing he could be a cat. He wishes it very much.

* * *

After Danica feeds, bathes, and changes the baby, she brings him into the lounge and plops him in Sherlock’s lap. “Hold him. I go upstairs. See Mrs. Wolfe.”

Sherlock blinks at her. “Why do you want to do that?”

“I do not want. But I—I—” she throws her hands up in frustration. “English! I do not know how to say. _I do go._ Okay?” She glares at Sherlock, but there is something pleading in it.

“Right,” Sherlock says. “If you must.”

Danica spins, braids whipping around, and marches upstairs. Sherlock half-expects to hear a scream, or even the thud of a sudden faint, but nothing comes from the third floor but silence.

Nero is growing tired. He relaxes in Sherlock’s arms, looking up at his father with sleepy eyes. Well-fed, he does not miss Irene yet. He is used to her being gone for a few hours, out shopping or lunching with one of her local friends. He does not miss her yet, but soon enough he will.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock says to him. Strange, how many times he’s said that phrase today. He never says it. Things are changing so rapidly. Two hours ago, he and Irene were here in this room, having a flaming row. Twelve hours ago they were in her room. They were—

Sherlock picks up Nero and arranges him in the white wicker bassinet that Irene keeps in the lounge. He doesn’t have to move him—Nero sleeps quite easily in one’s lap—but Sherlock needs the distraction. If he sits still, he’ll start to remember too much. He can’t consign this day to his memory palace yet. He’s not sure if there are enough oubliettes in the basement to hold all of it. He may have to build a new basement. Perhaps a whole separate building. A mausoleum.

He tucks the blanket around the baby and takes out his phone. He sits on the couch and brings up a website. He hasn’t looked at it in months, not since July. John had shut the site down then, and that was as it should be. Sherlock hoped it was a sign that John was moving on, though hope was not all he felt when he looked at the dead, locked blog. There were also other feelings, but they went into the oubliettes.

Sherlock stares blankly at his phone after John’s blog comes up. It’s not dead and locked now. Mycroft was sardonically understated, as usual. John Watson has been more than busy. A man possessed would be the best term for it.

 _Oh John,_ Sherlock thinks, as he scrolls rapidly through article after article, follows link after link. _I don’t deserve this. More than that, you don’t._ Some of the media responses to John’s crusade to reclaim Sherlock’s reputation have been vicious, to put it mildly. But John has kept going, with all the subtlety and caution of an oaken bludgeon. Sherlock wants to kiss him and punch him simultaneously for putting himself through it all. Nobody to help him through it, John going it quite alone like the hero he is, except—except—

Who the fuck is Neville St. Clair?

Sherlock hears footsteps on the stairs, and he reluctantly pockets his phone as Danica returns to the lounge. He can detect subtle traces of tears on her cheeks but her face is calm, eyes remote. She sits down in Irene’s favorite chair and tucks her feet up, pulling something from under her jumper as she does. The fourth Glock, which had been in Sherlock’s study. 

“You went in my rooms?” he says.

“Yes.” She looks at him, an odd little smile on her face. “You want to shoot me?”

“Since you appear to be equally well-armed, no.” Sherlock pauses. “Who are you, Danica Cvetković? Not just a housekeeper, that’s obvious.”

“I am housekeeper,” Danica says. “But my father is cousin to Vojislav and Vladan Marsenić. You know them?”

Sherlock thinks a moment, then nods. The Marsenić brothers ran one of the most powerful criminal gangs in Montenegro, before a bloody three-year war in the late 1990s with their rivals, the Rajovićs, thinned the ranks of both clans. An ongoing government investigation has led to many arrests in the past ten years, which further diminished the family’s power. Much of their territory has been taken over by newer organizations, just as ruthless but somewhat more subtle.

“Today is not first time I see dead person. Not first time I shoot gun. My father teach me good.” Danica pauses. “It is first time I kill someone. But it is not so hard, yes? When he deserve it.”

“Your father, where is he now?”

“Prison. He kill many people who do not deserve it. They never let him out. My mother always think they will. The day she die, she think it. Stupid.” She sticks her chin out at Sherlock. “My father is criminal. I am not. Do not judge.” 

“I certainly don’t,” Sherlock says without irony. Given his own father’s long and pitiless career, he is hardly one to be throwing stones.

She looks out the window, scowling. “I hate Budva. A town made of shit.”

Nero gives a sharp cry from his bassinet. Danica jumps up, putting the fourth Glock on the table. “Hungry again! He is empty pit, this one.” She goes to the kitchen to get Nero another bottle.

Sherlock returns to his phone. After another bottle, Nero finally settles down to sleep. Danica busies herself with picking up the rest of the toys, then she fixes a lunch from the contents of her basket. She offers Sherlock some of the _ĉorba od crnjaka_ (black onion chowder) and _brav u mlijeku_ (lamb cooked in milk), but Sherlock’s stomach has shrunk into a cold, nauseous ball. She shrugs when he shakes his head at her and finishes all the rice pudding herself.

Sherlock is reading yet another of the mysterious Mr. St. Clair’s editorials, and Danica is playing on the floor with a freshly rested and bright-eyed Nero, when they hear the sound of a helicopter. It’s actually Faust who hears it first, jerking his head up from the sofa with wide, dilated eyes, then shooting out of the room and up the stairs. Given the day’s events, his reaction is the most logical one, but Sherlock remains on the sofa.

It’s been two hours and forty-five minutes since he called Mycroft. This could be his brother. It probably is. But Sherlock still takes the kitchen Glock from his pocket. 

“Who is it?” Danica says, her eyes as wide as Faust’s. “More men with guns?”

“Almost certainly. But these may be on our side. In case they’re not, why don’t you take Nero into the kitchen?” Danica obeys instantly, picking up the study Glock as she goes. 

But it isn’t more evil men—at least, not evil to Sherlock. The first one out of the helicopter is Mycroft, thin hair blown all about by the whirring blades. He’s wearing one of his grey Gieves & Hawkes suits and a long black overcoat. He has an attache case in one hand and an umbrella in the other, like a masculine and (even more) sinister Mary Poppins. With him come two other men, dressed all in black and carrying more bags.

Mycroft strides across the motorcourt. He pauses briefly at the bodies of the Labs, then at the bloodstain from the fourth assassin, before continuing on. Though two of the lounge windows are entirely gone, he comes to the front door. He actually knocks. 

Sherlock opens the front door and looks into his brother’s face for the first time in six months. 

Though he knew Mycroft was coming, though he’s already spoken to him (and been berated by him) today, he’s still unprepared for his inner reaction when he sees him. This queasy warmth that is not relief and not guilt, not defiance or affection, but a strange brew of all these. It’s the feeling his brother’s presence always gives him when they are not raging at each other. But the feeling is stronger than it has ever been before, except perhaps in Paris. It overwhelms him. 

If the Holmes’ were a hugging family, this might be when Sherlock hugs Mycroft. But instead he just clings to the door frame, blinking rapidly.

Mycroft does not blink. His face barely moves as those steely eyes take in Sherlock from head to toe. But after a moment he reaches out. He puts one hand on top of Sherlock’s head, like he used to when Sherlock was five. He lets it rest there. The corners of his mouth twitch just once. The ghost of a smile or a stifled grimace of pain, it isn’t certain. But Mycroft lingers a moment, his hand palming Sherlock’s skull. His fingers tighten once, just once, as if to ensure that he is, indeed, touching something real. Then he lets go. He pushes past Sherlock and into the lounge.

“Where are they?” he says, putting his case on the console table.

“Who?” 

Mycroft spins on one heel, balancing his weight on the tip of the umbrella in that oddly natty way of his. “The _corpses,_ Sherlock. Do you think this is a social visit?”

Bloody Mycroft. The burn of irritation, that’s another familiar fraternal feeling. But Sherlock clenches his hands and says calmly, “There is one behind the sofa. The others are on the third floor. But I have to tell you—”

He’s pushed out of the way by the men in black. One is dark and small and the other is blond and big, but they are still much alike, and not just in dress. Their faces are so blandly ordinary that you could pass them every day for years and not see them. Even Sherlock would have a hard time hanging their portraits in his memory palace without a lot of concentrated effort.

Both men are holding huge black duffel bags. The small dark one sets his down on the floor. He catalogs Sherlock with a cool glance and then dismisses him. He turns to Mycroft. “Where’s the material?” he says. His voice is as smooth and blank as a sheet of typing paper, completely accentless as far as Sherlock can tell. A machine's voice.

“Behind the sofa,” Mycroft says. “And on the third floor.”

“Who’s that in the kitchen?” the blond man says. His voice is similarly affectless, but his long body has stiffened dangerously.

“Nobody to worry about,” Sherlock says. “Well—not usually.” 

The blond man acknowledges this by unstiffening, while the dark man addresses Mycroft again. “Communion or confirmation?” he says.

“Communion. Do get prints and photos before you set to work. We may be able to identify them later.”

Both men nod. The tall blond man goes behind the sofa and heaves the body of the fourth man over one shoulder like he’s picking up a sack of potatoes. The small dark man gets a duffel bag in each hand. They head upstairs without another word.

“What does that mean?” Sherlock says. “Communion or confirmation?”

“He was asking if I want the bodies found somewhere. It might send an interesting message to whoever sent the assassins, but there’s no point complicating matters further, is there? Gabriel and Michael will dispose of everything upstairs. The drains are in good order, I’m assuming. If not, now is the time to tell us.”

“They’re fine,” Sherlock says, with another twinge of nausea. He knows what Mycroft means by _dispose._ He could probably even list the chemicals that Gabriel and Michael are carrying in their bags, the corrosives necessary for dissolving a corpse down to ruddy sludge. It will play merry hell with the finishes in the bath, but Sherlock isn’t terribly concerned about resale value. His brother's men can send those corpses swirling right down the pipes if they so desire—

“Wait,” Sherlock says. “They can’t do that. Not to her.”

“Her?” Mycroft has been taking in the lounge, frowning at the toy box under the console, the wicker bassinet near the sofa. But this one word has re-engaged his full attention. “Who?”

At this very moment Danica comes hustling back in, Nero balanced on her hip, a bottle of milk in one hand and a Glock in the other. “Who is this?” she says, glaring at Mycroft suspiciously.

“Danica, this is my brother,” Sherlock says. “Mycroft, this is Danica. The housekeeper.” He puts a little extra emphasis on the last word, so Mycroft doesn’t draw any erroneous conclusions. 

Mycroft’s eyes take in Danica’s pretty round face, the gun in her hand, the bottle of milk. Then his gaze gets to the boy’s face and lingers there. It lingers on Nero for a long time.

“Sherlock—” he says softly. The fingers of Mycroft’s right hand have tightened on the umbrella. Siger’s gold signet ring catches the mid-afternoon light, winking at them.

“His mother,” Sherlock says. “Your men can’t do that to Nero’s mother.”

 _Nero._ Mycroft mouths the word like it’s syllables from a strange foreign tongue. Then he tears his gaze away from the baby and stares at Sherlock.

“I was going to explain,” Sherlock says. “But I think it would be easier if you just went upstairs.”

Mycroft starts towards the stairs. Suddenly, he stops. He looks at Nero again. Then he looks at Sherlock, as if confirming paternity one more time. He gives a small, bewildered shake of his head. Then he does go.

“Your brother does not kiss baby,” Danica says. “Very strange.”

“Yes. My brother is very strange.”

“You would give Nero to him? He does not care.”

“He does, actually,” Sherlock says. “You’re about to see how much.”

From upstairs comes the keening scream of a bone saw.

* * *

Sherlock stands on Becici Beach, watching the sun sink into the silver waters. Such a strange place, the Adriatic. Ancient and secret, even the might of Rome feared it. “To sail the Adriatic” was to embark on any dangerous journey. Anything could happen in Illyria, and often did. All of them were here, gods, monsters, pirates. Nothing was unknown here. Nothing was known.

Sherlock’s eyes are dazzled by the orange light of the dying day, his nostrils full of the cold salt wind blowing across the sea. But he is not so overwhelmed that he does not hear the footsteps behind him. He does not turn around; he knows that tread as well as he knows his own.

Mycroft speaks without preamble, as is his habit when talking of vital matters. He is a master of polite small talk, but he knows when to get to the point.

“Gabriel wants to burn the house down.”

Sherlock digests this news without changing expression. “Why?”

“The bodies are gone. But there is still too much evidence. It would take days to clean it so thoroughly that nothing could be used against you. Time is of the essence. It’s simpler just to burn it.” Mycroft pauses. “I don’t suppose you’re much attached to it.”

“No.”

“If there’s anything you want, mementos and so forth, we do have time to collect those.”

“I don’t want anything,” Sherlock says. “Well. The violin.”

“The Phoenix,” Mycroft says, with something like wonder. “Where did it come from?”

“She found it,” Sherlock says. He does not explain the pronoun. One of the rarefied pleasures of talking to Mycroft: no need to ever explain anything.

“Really? How astonishing.”

Sherlock scrapes the toe of his shoe in the pebbly sand. “Where is she?”

“Michael is going to take her. He has contacts in the area, he can see she is properly interred.” Mycroft comes closer, until he is standing at Sherlock’s elbow. “He asked if there was any particular name you want on the stone. We can’t bury her under Irene Adler, of course.”

“Iris Adams,” Sherlock says, after a moment. “It was her real name.” He spent a little more time online this afternoon, as the bone saws screamed upstairs. Amazing what’s at Wikipedia these days: Briony Adams, bohemian and adventuress, was notorious enough in the early ‘70s that she has her own page. It’s not very long, but there’s enough information for a tombstone.

Iris isn’t mentioned on Briony’s page. But you can never totally trust Wikipedia. Sherlock isn’t mentioned on Violet’s, either. 

“Any inscription?” Mycroft prods gently.

Sherlock gazes out over the water. After all these hours, he finds his benediction. He can say it.

“‘She is life and being, starry-bright, sparkling, blinding, mobile, whose sweet strangeness draws man on irresistibly the more disdainfully it dismisses him; an essence crystal-clear, nevertheless intertwined with the dark roots in all animate nature; a being childishly simple yet incalculable, sweetly amiable and diamond-hard; girlishly demure, fleeting, elusive, and suddenly brusque and contrary; playing, frolicking, dancing, and in a flash most inexorably serious; lovingly anxious and tenderly solicitous, with the enchantment of a smile that outweighs perdition, yet wild to the point of gruesomeness and cruel to the point of repulsiveness. All these are traits of the free, withdrawn nature to which Artemis belongs.’”

The orange light trembles, begins to blur. Sherlock has to stop a moment before continuing. When he does, he can’t speak above a whisper. 

“In her, the spirit becomes the eternal image of the sublime. Femininity, as a thing divine.”

The light blurs completely. Sherlock puts his hands to his eyes, fighting for control. 

“Walter Otto,” Mycroft says, almost as softly. _“The Gods of Greece, 1929._ Quite evocative. But a bit long, don’t you think?”

“Right,” Sherlock says once he can speak. “Something else, then. _‘Pulvis et umbra sumus.’_

“Horace. _‘We are but dust and shadow.’_ Not very comforting.”

Sherlock says nothing. For a moment they stand in silence as the light continues to fade.

“I am sorry about Irene,” Mycroft says. “I know you felt strongly for her.”

“I hated her. Or perhaps I loved her. I don’t know,” Sherlock says.

“It’s not unusual, that sort of confusion. Not in our family. Father could have told you about it, had he lived. His feelings for our mother were complicated.”

Sherlock turns to look at his brother. “Like yours?”

Mycroft’s face is a blank. But his fingers are nervous, twisting the signet ring on his right hand. He doesn’t answer. 

“I didn’t know her,” Sherlock says with sudden heat. “Nero won’t know Irene. She was not the best of all possible mothers, perhaps. But he will miss her. I know how hard it will be for him. What do I _do_ about that, Mycroft?” 

Mycroft looks irritated. “The boy is not an orphan. He has a father and an uncle. He has a homicidally devoted nanny who is even now feeding him what must be his seventh meal of the day. He’ll be fine. So will you.” Mycroft gives him a level gaze. “You’ll only be a single parent if you wish to be.”

“Oh God,” Sherlock says, and takes a few exasperated steps down the beach. 

Mycroft is right on his heels. “Are we still playing this game, Sherlock? After all these years, after everything that has happened, are you going to go on pretending? John Watson is waiting for you in London. Why is your next step even a question?”

When Sherlock tries to keep walking, Mycroft grabs his arm and spins him around. “You’re 33, or nearly so. You’ve fathered a man and killed two more. By ancient standards—by _any,_ you’re an adult. It’s time to start acting like one. You must stop running. You must go back to London.”

Sherlock twists away from him with a furious convulsion. “Why? Because I have a hopeless infatuation with my flatmate? Because you’ve missed arguing with me? Because you want to be sure I don’t make a bloody great cock-up of raising your nephew?”

“Yes,” Mycroft says. “Any of these things would be reason enough. But there is one more.”

He hesitates for a moment, as if he can’t quite say it. The sight of Mycroft at a loss for words makes a cold worm of fear uncurl in Sherlock’s belly. Or perhaps it isn’t only that. Perhaps he knows what his brother is trying—fearing—to tell him. With that strange communion they’ve always shared, Sherlock knows what’s coming a second before Mycroft finds his voice.

“James Moriarty is alive.”

* * *

Sherlock is the last one into the helicopter. Gabriel and Michael, those faceless angels of death, have stayed behind to supervise the burning. They’ll be gone before anyone can get here—and people will come eventually for such a conflagration, even at Christmas. Even in Budva. But the locale is so remote, the city so deserted, it will probably be tomorrow. They won’t find anything then but smoldering ashes. Nothing incriminating.

Mycroft has climbed into the front, next to the pilot. On his lap is a soft-sided carrier holding a very unhappy cat. Sherlock was surprised when his brother offered to look after Faust, but he really shouldn’t have been. Mycroft understands the ways of cats, their caution and cruelty. If anyone can reconcile Faust to the ignominy of being caged and then shoved into a whirling mechanical beast, it’s Mycroft.

Danica has Nero and the changing bag. The baby doesn’t like the noise either, but Danica bounces him on her knee, singing Slavic lullabies to keep him calm. Nero is calm now, content with his bear, but soon he’ll be restless as he begins to miss his mother. He hasn’t lost faith yet; he still expects her to come for him at any moment. He doesn’t know what’s been taken from him. Tomorrow, he will learn.

Sherlock tucks his legs into the cramped seat. He balances the Stradivarius case on his lap. Aside from his papers and clothes, it’s the only thing he took from the villa. Danica wanted the Lempicka, it’s in the back with the bags somewhere. Sherlock let her have it on the condition that she keep it where he never has to look at it. The Phoenix is a different kind of memento, it means more than just Irene and her furious longings. The Phoenix _is_ family, the one thing Irene wanted desperately and never quite found. But the Phoenix is also hope. The light which can’t be destroyed, no matter what darkness lies in wait for it.

Michael shuts the chopper door. Sherlock puts his head against the window. Gabriel has already started the fire. Flames are just licking around the villa, beginning to turn the pink paint to black. Another of Sherlock’s lives is burning away. He doesn’t know what, if anything, will come from these ashes. His heart’s desire or more dead ruins? He doesn’t know. But he hopes. He hopes.

  
** END OF BOOK THREE **   


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Get ready for more director's commentary! Chapters 24-28 had a lot going on, and the notes reflect that. For a really detailed discussion of everything that went into the Budva sequence, go to my Dreamwidth or Livejournal blogs.
> 
>  
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> [Author Notes at Dreamwidth](http://chase820.dreamwidth.org/311035.html)
> 
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> [Author Notes at LiveJournal](http://chase820.livejournal.com/322990.html)
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> Links to other notes can be found at the end of chapters 5, 12, 20, 23, 29, 32, 38, 42, and 47.


	29. Chapter 29

  
_When first we faced, and touching showed_  
 _How well we knew the early moves,_  
 _Behind the moonlight and the frost,_  
 _The excitement and the gratitude,_  
 _There stood how much our meeting owed_  
 _To other meetings, other loves._

_The decades of a different life_  
 _That opened past your inch-close eyes_  
 _Belonged to others, lavished, lost;_  
 _Nor could I hold you hard enough_  
 _To call my years of hunger-strife_  
 _Back for your mouth to colonise._

_Admitted: and the pain is real._  
 _But when did love not try to change_  
 _The world back to itself—no cost,_  
 _No past, no people else at all—_  
 _Only what meeting made us feel,_  
 _So new, and gentle-sharp, and strange?_

__

_—Philip Larkin, “When First We Faced, and Touching Showed”_

  


**BOOK FOUR: 27 December 2012-5 January 2013 ******

  


* * *

****  


_But first, a flashback (of sorts) . . ._

  


** John, 30 January 2010  
**

Thinking back on it later, John realizes that it all started with the chicken feet.

He didn’t really want to try them—who in his right mind would? But Sherlock was enjoying them terribly, munching away like they were prawn-flavored crisps instead of cartilage, breaded and fried. Something almost challenging in the way he chewed. Sonny Moran regarded John the same way once, after his sister sent a package of homemade alligator jerky. 

_Want some, Jacky boy? It’s all right if you don’t. I know Brits have sensitive stomachs. That’s why y’all boil everything to death, right?_

John ate two strips, then shagged Sonny so hard the grinning Yank was walking strangely when he headed back to his own barracks. If John then ran to the loo and vommed his guts out, nobody was ever the wiser. 

Chicken feet are not as bad as alligator. Rather like eating a soy sauce jelly baby, but chewier. John chews and chews while Sherlock watches.

“Well?”

“It’s—interesting,” John says, still chewing.

“Give it a chance. You’ll get used to it.”

“If I had a quid for every time I heard that—”

“Yes?”

“I’d have a few quid. You remind me of a mate of mine from sixth form. Always pushing me to try new things.” 

“Did you enjoy them?”

“Some of them.” John smiles. Ganga, Kubrick films, and fellatio—Toby Gregson introduced John to all of these, and he liked them fine. Of course, not every experiment was so successful. Magic mushrooms gave John a panic attack, and he really can’t stand Joy Division, though he never did return Toby’s _Unknown Pleasures_ CD. It’s probably still in the Canterburys’ attic.

John pushes the bamboo box away. “I’m afraid the appeal of chicken feet is lost on me.”

“Pity. I’ll have to think of something else for you to try.”

“You do that.” 

Toby didn’t give up either, after John’s sad reaction to the ‘shrooms. A rim job isn’t standard treatment for panic attacks, but it worked very well on that rainy afternoon in Slough. After John came his brains out, he no longer cared about the eyes blinking at him from the bedroom walls. 

He looks at Sherlock, who is still watching him. Most people probably find that grey gaze disturbing—worse than gawking wallpaper—but John is not disturbed. Toby used to look at him with the same intensity. He looked at John that way their first time, right before he pushed John into the carpet and kissed him—

John pulls himself back with a blink. Let’s not be silly: There will be no kisses from Sherlock. 

_I think you should know that I consider myself married to my work, and while I’m flattered by your interest, I’m really not looking for anything._

Doesn’t matter: John isn’t gay. If he were, Sherlock isn’t his type at all. He likes men who are nice, cheerful, normal. Even brilliant Toby enjoyed beer and football as much as the next bloke. 

If John were planning to take someone home tonight, he wouldn’t take Sherlock. If he wanted to kiss someone, to taste lips redolent of soy sauce and lemony tea, they wouldn’t be Sherlock’s. If he wanted to touch someone, crawl all over a long and lovely body until he stopped hearing that gunshot in his head, Sherlock would not possess the body in question. 

Though if John did touch him, he couldn’t be blamed, could he? Sherlock is the reason John shot Jeff Hope. If it weren’t for Sherlock, John wouldn’t be feeling like he does right now, the way he felt after he shot those three men in Afghanistan. A desperate urge to kiss, to touch, to fuck away the chill of death. All things considered, Sherlock _should_ shag him.

John finishes his beer in one long gulp that nearly chokes him. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and forces himself to focus.

_Stand down, soldier. This isn’t Afghanistan. Sherlock isn’t Sonny. His bedroom habits must be like his eating habits, starvation interspersed with the odd and exotic. Sexual chicken feet. You, John Watson, are shepherd’s pie at best. Doesn’t matter: You don’t want him._

John straightens and regards Sherlock again, who has, rather remarkably, just shoved an entire pork burn in his mouth. Perhaps that’s why his expression is so strange—nervous and a little sick, the face of a man who has definitely bitten off more than he can chew.

“Sherlock? Everything all right?”

Sherlock swallows and blinks. When he speaks again his voice is soft, distracted, like he really has his mind on something else. Which makes what he says even more surprising.

“How did your parents die?” 

John isn’t offended. The question is awkward in its timing and rather presumptuous, but that’s Sherlock all over, isn’t it? If Sherlock were ever on a date—an unimaginable scenario, but let’s continue with it a moment—he would probably ask the man/woman/velociraptor sitting across the table the same thing. 

But this isn’t a date. John has been on so many of those, and none of them has ever been like this. No date has ever made him feel this way. _Confused_ is how he feels. Also irritated, and still rather desperately randy. Maybe it’s the shooting, or maybe that’s how Sherlock makes everyone feel. It would explain why Sergeant Donovan is such a bitch.

John deflects by signaling the server for water. Once she brings it, he takes his time about squeezing the lemon, getting the water/acid ratio just so. He takes a sip and doesn’t taste it. When he sees Sherlock getting visibly impatient, he forces himself to speak. 

“You don’t already know?” _You must. You’re toying with your prey, as velociraptors do._

“I’m not clairvoyant, John. Just observant.” 

John quickly considers any number of lies before realizing how pointless they would be. He’s got nothing to be ashamed of. What happened to him has happened to thousands of boys. The most mundane tragedy imaginable.

“My mother died of ovarian cancer when I was eight. She was a schoolteacher: English. I suppose that’s where Harry gets her way with words. Harry’s a lawyer. If you ever want to scare the hell out of someone, my sister is very scary.”

Sherlock dismisses this last bit with a gesture, refusing to be sidetracked. “Noted. How did your father die?” 

_Oh fuck me._ John looks down, taking another sip of water. “An accident. Single-car fatality. At least he didn’t take anyone with him. Thank God there was nobody in the back seat. He had a few too many that night.” 

Another tragedy, equally mundane. John Watson has no reason to be ashamed of how James Watson died. He’s not ashamed, just a bit queasy. One order of dim sum too many, perhaps. 

“And every other night, I imagine.”

John’s head jerks up. “What?”

“Scary Harry is a drinker. Alcoholism has a strong genetic component, though it seems to have skipped you.” Sherlock waves a long finger at John’s beer bottle and water glass.

John stares at Sherlock. If this were a normal date with a normal person, his companion might be ashamed at this point. Uncomfortable at least, for having pushed polite conversation too far. But Sherlock is as calmly relentless as ever, the finely drawn lines of his face totally composed. 

When John doesn’t answer, Sherlock shrugs and continues. “Also, you just spent several years in a place that follows Sharia law. It’s difficult to sustain a drinking problem in Afghanistan.”

“You’d be surprised,” John says, picturing shampoo bottles.

“A drinker couldn’t have made that shot.” Sherlock puts the slightest bit of emphasis on the last two words. Unnecessary: John doesn’t need to be reminded of which one he means. 

“That was mostly luck.” 

He said the same thing the first time he and Sonny practiced shooting, when he hit the man-shaped target straight through the heart five times in a row. Sonny whistled, impressed.

_“That ain’t luck. That’s natural fucking ability. Was your daddy a marksman or something?”_

_“Something.”_

_“Hmm,” Sonny says, giving John a long look. Then he shrugs his broad shoulders, running a hand over the ruddy spikes of his crewcut. “You got a hunter in the woodpile somewhere. Good. I ain’t wasting my valuable time.” He hits the switch to bring up the next target._

_John sighs. It’s already been a long afternoon. “If I’ve got all this ability, why do I have to keep practicing?”_

_“Ability don’t mean shit without practice. You keep at it and keep at it until it’s like breathing. Train the muscles right, and after awhile you won’t even think about it. Which is good, because when shit goes down, you won’t have time to think. You’ll do it or you’ll fucking die. Worse, you’ll watch somebody else die.” Sonny’s cheerful face is suddenly serious. “Try it again.”_

“I also had a very good shooting instructor,” John says.

“Which was it, luck or instruction?” 

“Both, I suppose.”

“Why did you shoot?”

“Excuse me?”

“The cabbie didn’t have a real gun. He wasn’t an immediate threat. If you wanted to distract us, you could have shot his leg or his shoulder and had the same outcome. You took the kill shot.” 

“You always take the kill shot. If you’re going to shoot at all, you shoot to kill.”

“Did you instructor teach you that?”

“Yes, among other things. We were good friends.”

“You seem to learn a lot of things from friends.” 

“I’m friendly.” 

Not as friendly as Sonny. Of course the American made the first move, one fine day after target practice. John can feel them now, those big warm hands on either side of his face. Sonny tasted like Juicy Fruit gum and he smelled like sweat and metal, and the first time they kissed John thought his heart was going to explode right out of his chest. He wanted him so badly, like nothing he’d known before.

Well, just two times before. 

John feels the gaze before he looks up to meet it. Shit. He hasn’t said much about Toby or Sonny—not even names—but that won’t save him. You don’t have to say with Sherlock; he pulls the secrets straight out of your skull. A bloodless, merciless invasion—no wonder people hate him. John doesn’t, but that doesn’t mean he’s going to sit still for the trepanning, either. 

“How did _your_ parents die?”

“What?” If there was suspicion in Sherlock’s face, it’s certainly gone now. John smirks. 

“You know my mother was a teacher and my father was an alcoholic and that I shoot to kill. All I know is that you really like chicken feet. Turnabout’s fair play, don’t you think?”

“My father died of emphysema when I was 17,” Sherlock says. 

“Your mum?”

“I lost her early. I don’t really remember her.” Sherlock’s expression hasn’t changed, but there’s something in his voice—a note, or maybe just a slight drop in pitch—that makes John stop smiling. Pain, old and crusted over but still palpable: any decent doctor would recognize it.

“I’m sorry.” Then he stops, confused. “Your brother said you two fighting used to upset her.”

“That’s his idea of a joke.”

“Jesus.” 

“Mycroft,” Sherlock says, seeming unconcerned. “Jesus has little to do with it.”

Strange, to think of Sherlock having a family. Though he obviously had one, and it must have been dysfunctional. Personalities like Sherlock’s don’t form for no reason, and his genius isn’t excuse enough. No doubt Sherlock gets placed on the Asperger’s spectrum quite a lot, but it’s a bad diagnosis. Aspies don’t have voices like velvety chocolate. Aspies don’t move with such grace. Aspies don’t see straight into you, reading your soul with the flicker of one pale eye.

Sherlock doesn’t have Asperger’s. Still, something isn’t right with him, and his childhood is probably at the root of the problem, as is so often the case. But John still can’t picture a family, even after meeting Mycroft. Indeed, Mycroft makes it more difficult. Easier to imagine the brothers hatched from some mythical egg, laid by a being half-god, half-monster.

John is roused from these fancies by the rumbling of the dessert cart. When Sherlock gives him an inquiring look, John demurs. His nerves are still thrumming like overstretched guitar strings. He can’t stay in this greasy-smelling temple of sensory overload much longer.

Sherlock seems positively chuffed when John lets him pay the check. The man has his faults, but parsimony doesn’t appear to be one of them. As for the curiosity, Sherlock can’t seem to help it. That’s one thing he has in common with those on the autism spectrum: Obsessiveness. John has his own compulsions, though, and he won’t take Sherlock’s pushiness personally. We all do things we can’t help sometimes. They don’t have to define us. 

The walk home from the teahouse is cool and pleasant. They don’t talk, but it’s not an awkward silence. Sherlock seems to have pulled in his antennae for once, not searching every passing face with acute attention. He walks along as any normal man would, his expression characteristically inscrutable, but without the underlying tension that so often defines it. If Sherlock were the kind of man to go on dates, this is the face he might have after a good one.

This isn’t a date. But if it were, you might call it good. Despite the awkward questions, the meal went well. Not fun exactly, but at least interesting. Tonight would not be a date that would blur into the hundreds you’ve had since you were fifteen. Unlike all of those Jennys and Lizzies and Michelles, Sherlock’s face won’t be forgotten a week after you’ve shagged.

Let’s be clear: John is not expecting sex. Not even a kiss on the doorstep. True, right now he is very aware of Sherlock physically. They haven’t touched—they never have—but it’s as if John can feel his companion’s body heat from a foot away. He can smell Sherlock’s particular scent, wool and clean skin and an aftershave John’s never encountered before, a delicious mix of musk and oranges. Sherlock has something of a chemical tang too, lab leftovers perhaps, slightly acrid but not really unpleasant. The scent seems to travel up John’s nostrils and into his lungs. It curls up in the pit of his belly, not just a scent now but also a feeling and a color, flaming and red.

It’s fine, really. It’s all fine. John has had such reactions before, and he almost always controls himself. It doesn’t mean anything. It’s just the shooting and the general strangeness of the day. Just John’s loneliness. He hasn’t touched anybody in a long time: Sonny was over a year ago. There were women after that, none memorable. There’s been nobody since he was wounded. He hasn’t thought about sex in the last few months; the pain and the meds sapped his urges. A good sign, that he’s feeling something now. He really is getting better. But that has little to do with Sherlock. Which is why, even if they weren’t about to be flatmates, John wouldn’t impose these feelings on him. This is a passing impulse, nothing more.

They’ve reached the front steps of 221-B. 

“Goodnight,” John says, and looks around for a cab. He spots one and raises his hand to stop it.

“What did your father do for a living?”

John spins around. “What?”

“You never said. I’d guess doctor for obvious reasons, but it doesn’t seem quite right.”

Sherlock waits, as composed as ever. He’s not putting much weight on the question. It’s just the one thing he forgot to ask, and he can’t rest until his files are complete. John isn’t angry at him for asking. Sherlock can’t know the possible implications.

John didn’t shoot Jeff Hope because he was a cabbie. He shot him because he was fucking psychotic and about to poison Sherlock. It has nothing to do with James Watson. John didn’t hate his father. Not that much. He could explain this, but he doesn’t want to. It will just put a damper on what has been a very nice evening, justifiable homicide notwithstanding. 

“My father was a lorry driver,” he says. It’s not entirely untrue. Dad did drive lorries from time to time to make extra cash. It just wasn’t his primary profession.

“Ah,” Sherlock says, and pauses with one foot on the bottom step. “I suppose you get your way with words from your mother.”

“Way with words?”

“The blog.”

“Oh. Right.”

“And your way with a gun from your friend. What did you say his name was?” Sherlock’s eyes are close on John’s face again.

“I didn’t. Sebastian.” John jumps a little at the blare of a horn. “The cabbie’s getting tetchy.”

Sherlock makes an impatient sound and waves the cab off. 

“Why did you do that?” John says as the vehicle goes. “It’s past one. I might not find another.”

“We’ll ring for one if need be.” Sherlock unlocks the door. “Come with me.”

“Sherlock, it’s very late—”

“You’re not a bit sleepy. In fact, just the opposite. Going by the coil in your gait and the clench of your hands, you’re quite tense. If you go back to your rooms, you’ll stare at the ceiling all night. You had much better stay here.”

“And do what?”

“I can think of several things. But I don’t wish to discuss them in the street.”

John blinks at him. “I don’t—”

Sherlock whirls around and grabs John’s right hand. He leans in close, so close that John can smell him again, oranges and volatile chemicals. Sherlock’s grip is very warm and very strong, and combined with his overwhelming scent and John’s current mood—very tense indeed—John feels the shock of contact all the way down his spine.

“Powder,” Sherlock whispers. “Remember?” His silvery gaze bores into John’s.

Right. The gunshot. They have to get the powder residue out of his hand. That’s what the contact means. So why is Sherlock still holding on?

He lets go then, but John can feel the press of heat even after Sherlock takes his hand away.

“You—you said several things,” John whispers back. He doesn’t know why—who could be listening? But it feels right, saying these things quietly.

Sherlock just smiles. Not his normal superior smirk, this one is nicer. Warmer than his grip. There is something challenging in his eyes. John has seen that look before. Daring him to eat the magic mushroom, get that first tattoo, take the big ol’ gun in his hand, try the chicken feet. Just _do it_ already, John. Don’t think about it. You know you want it. 

They head upstairs without another word.

The lounge is still in disarray, but how much of that is Lestrade’s search and how much is Sherlock’s ordinary chaos isn’t clear. They will have to tidy this up a bit if John is to live here. He can stand dust but not clutter; it makes him nervous after so many years of pin-neat barracks. Even before then, he didn’t like disorder much. He and Mark had words over it a few times. For a brilliant surgeon, Mark was a useless git around the house. He couldn’t pick up socks without firm instructions. If they’d been ordinary roommates it might have become a real problem, but it’s amazing how much domestic unrest can be smoothed over by absolutely brilliant sex. 

“You should undress.”

John whirls from arranging a precarious pile of papers on the desk. “What?”

“The residue,” Sherlock says, heading into the kitchen. “It’s impossible to get out of fabric. Well, carbolic acid would do it, but the clothes wouldn’t be much good after. We’ll have to burn all the outer garments. You’re not terribly attached to that jumper, are you? I can’t see how you could be.” He starts opening various cupboards. 

John glances down self-consciously. “It was a gift from my Aunt Klaudia.”

“Germans have no sense of style. Still, they’re a very tidy people. That counts for something.”

“How in the hell did you—”

Sherlock just smirks. “The bath is down the hall. Go on, scrub up. You can keep the pants and undershirt, but nothing else. I’ll throw it all into the furnace later. You can borrow my second-best dressing gown. It’s on the back of the door. You can’t miss it.” He opens the cabinet next to the stove. _“Where_ did I put the paraffin? I didn’t eat it. It must be here somewhere—” 

“How am I supposed to get home with no clothes?”

Sherlock slams the cupboard, looking exasperated. “Good Lord, man, you can have the shirt off my back if it pleases you! Now would you proceed? That evidence isn’t going to tamper with itself.” He turns his back on John, crouching down to get to the cupboard in the corner.

The bath is surprisingly clean, given the state of the rest of the flat. You could eat dim sum off of the octagonal floor tiles. The extreme tidiness makes up for the rather alarming emerald and ebony color scheme, which extends not just to the floors and walls but also to the toilet , tub, and sink. The bathroom appears to have been last updated sometime in the 30’s, and though John has often heard his sister-in-law Clara wax rhapsodic over the beauties of Art Deco design, he is not impressed. Peeing into a pea green loo is just _odd._

He flushes, strips, turns on the taps, and steps into the shower. He scrubs up with Sherlock’s expensive Italian bath soap, which also smells deliciously of oranges—he’s sensing a theme. John is happy to see that at least the plumbing appears sound. Water pressure and temperature are excellent. He won’t have to berate nice Mrs. Hudson about the state of the facility—

Then it occurs to John that he won’t be using this bath again. He has his own upstairs, next to his bedroom. Sherlock mentioned something about it on the walk to the teahouse this evening. The quality of that facility, its color scheme—whether soothing or alarming—is completely unknown to him. He hasn’t inspected his bedroom, either. He rented the lot sight unseen. 

It’s not like him, that kind of impulse. He hasn’t made such a profound domestic shift so quickly since Mark Morstan. One day he was still mired in a quasi-marriage with Lucy, the next he was dodging candle shrapnel and showing up on Mark’s doorstep, all his earthly goods shoved into bin bags. But he knew Mark’s flat well. He knew the dodgy quality of the plumbing, he knew how comfy the bed was. They’d been sleeping together for weeks by the time things melted down with Lucy, and the move was not traumatic. Going to Mark’s felt like going home. 

Things began so quickly with Mark. They ended quickly too. John spent the weeks before he left for officer’s training crashing at the Canterburys’. It wasn’t very convenient—Cousin Tim’s documentary had aired by then, John kept getting mistaken for him at the Tesco, people asking if he was still in love with Dawn, bloody annoying—but John had no real regrets. Later, though, he wished he’d been kinder. 

He can still see it, Mark’s blank, shocked look when John told him about Afghanistan. Mark had a surgeon’s ego—he couldn’t accept it, that John would choose blood and sand over a luxurious life in London with the man who adored him. He had many questions, and John had only one answer: _It’s not enough. I love you, but I’m not like you._

_No. You’re a coward, John. You can bury yourself in the desert, get yourself blown to bits, it doesn’t matter. The army can pin a dozen medals on you, it won’t change what you are._

That was their last talk, the worst talk. No screaming and shattered bric-a-brac that time, Mark wasn’t Lucy. Screaming would have been easier to take than Mark’s calm, measured contempt.

The water is chilly, and John’s hands are getting pruny. He turns off the taps. He steps out of the bath and dries off with one of Sherlock’s fluffy green towels. They match the tiles exactly. Strange to think of Sherlock at the shops, picking out towels and spoons and things. But velociraptors have to live too, don’t they?

He gets back into his t-shirt and pants, then looks around for Sherlock’s second-best dressing gown. It’s not hard to find, being almost the only thing in the bath that isn’t black or green. He slips it on. The thick crimson wool smells strongly of Sherlock, which isn’t a bad smell at all. 

The robe is much too long. Wearing it gives John a sudden flash of being five years old, running about in one of his father’s old work shirts. John wanted to be a cabbie back then. It seems like a glamorous job when you’re five, driving around London in that big black car, coming home with a pocket full of shiny coins. When his father would get in from work, he always gave John and Harry some money to put into their piggy banks. _You have to save for the future, laddy,_ he would tell John. _It’ll be here before you know it._

John can barely remember his father saying that. After his wife died, James Watson never spoke about the future. What coins he had went right over the counter at the local pub.

John splashes water on his face. He borrows some of Sherlock’s Listerine, grimacing a little at the acid mint taste. He hates the stuff, but he suddenly can’t stand the tang of beer in his mouth.

When John returns to the kitchen, Sherlock is at the stove, contentedly stirring something in a big double boiler. John peeks over the edge and sees the inner pot is full of a viscous white liquid.

“You found the paraffin wax,” he says.

“It was in the filing cabinet in the vestibule, under ‘R,’” Sherlock says, looking pleased. 

“Why not ‘P’ or ‘W’?”

“‘R’ is for _Residue,_ John.” 

“Of course. Stupid of me.”

“Sit at the table,” Sherlock says, as he sticks a thermometer into the pot of wax. “I thought you might have a bit of a wait, but you showered quite thoroughly. This should be just—yes! Fifty-one point six-seven degrees Celsius. Right as rain.” He grabs a pair of oven mitts and lifts the pot with the paraffin out of the double boiler. He sets the pot on the small granite table against the left wall, pushing the pot over and out of the way. Then he reaches into the cabinet above the stove and takes down a bottle of clear liquid. He sits at the table and looks at John expectantly.

John sits beside him, watching the rest of the preparations. Sherlock takes the bottle of liquid—mineral oil, John sees now—and pours it into a plastic bowl that was already on the table. He picks up a basting brush and dips it into the bowl. “Give me your hand—wait! Take off the dressing gown. I don’t want the oil staining the wool.”

“It’s chilly in here. I’ll pay for the dry cleaning.”

“You will not. That garment is 91 years old. It would fall to rags.”

Fucking hell. John shrugs it off. “You know, they sell very nice ones at Marks and Spencer. Twenty quid, machine washable. I got mine there.”

“How nice for you,” Sherlock says, with a pitying look.

“Don’t run down Marks and Sparks. Where do you buy your sodding towels?”

“Towels? Not sure. Mycroft had a big package sent ‘round when I moved in a fortnight ago. All the towels were there. You’d have to ask him where they came from.”

“Mycroft? Your archenemy? He picks out your linens for you?”

“Well, no.” Sherlock looks rather discomfited. “I’m sure his assistant did that.” He seems to gather himself. “Give me your hand. The wax is getting cold.”

John is too exhausted to plumb the depths of Sherlock and Mycroft’s mad relationship any further. He holds out his hand. Sherlock takes it in his warm, firm grip. He begins painting John’s right hand with the mineral oil. It tickles, and John shifts in his chair.

“Hold still.” Sherlock hasn’t taken his attention from John’s hand. The hard white light from the kitchen lamp overhead makes his eyes appear strikingly transparent. Such harsh illumination does most people no favors, but Sherlock’s skin is almost unlined, as luminous as his gaze. 

“How did you know my aunt is German?” John says, talking to avoid fidgeting.

“Klaudia with a ‘K,’ I saw it in your phone. Also, you speak German. Which means that she’s your mother’s sister.” Before John can ask: “You didn’t live with your aunt until you were 16. You hardly see her now. Why learn her language? Unless it was also your mother’s language.”

“My mother was born in England. Her father was German. He came over before the War.”

“You’re not Jewish. Not with those earlobes.”

“He wasn’t Jewish,” John says patiently. “But his first wife was. They left Munich in the mid-‘30s, right after Hitler outlawed mixed marriages.”

“Your grandfather was a prescient man. You come by the trait honestly.”

“Prescient? Me?”

“Enough to follow me tonight. And to bring your gun along.” Sherlock sets down the brush. “Now for the wax. We have to dip repeatedly, understand? We must open up the pores, making sure the heavy metals come out.” He scoots the wax pot to the middle of the table. He stands, motioning for John to stand too. When John does, his right wrist is seized again. 

“Ready?” Sherlock asks. “This will sting a bit.” 

“Just bloody do it—Jeeeeesus!” John winces as his hand is suddenly plunged into the wax. It’s not painful exactly, but the sensation is _intense,_ an encompassing heat that shoots up his wrist.

It takes half-a-dozen dips before Sherlock is satisfied with the thickness of the wax on John’s hand. Then they have to let the stuff dry. While it does, Sherlock natters on about scanning electron microscopy and energy dispersive X-ray spectrometry and all manner of ways that the Met could nail John’s hide to the wall over the murder of Jefferson Hope. “Purely speculative, you understand? They’re not going to find any particles to analyze. Not a single one.” 

John doesn’t hear most of the lecture: Words keep getting drowned by the roar of the Browning. The memories are coming back sharper now, as he knew they would. He’ll be seeing Jeff Hope crumpling to the floor for the next week at least. 

He isn’t sorry Hope is dead. But he wishes he could fast-forward past the post-traumatic stress. Feeling like shit is better than feeling nothing—that way lies sociopathy—but it’s bloody awful working through it all. There’s no Sonny to help him this time. Losing oneself in willing flesh is the best cure for panic attacks, John has found. But the thought of going to a bar and picking up a woman makes him want to weep from exhaustion. 

John feels eyes on him and looks up. “Sorry?”

“I said, are you ready? The wax is dry.”

“Sure. Okay.”

Sherlock leans a bit closer to John. “The most difficult part is over. This won’t hurt at all.” When John blinks at him: “I say that because you were looking rather pained.”

“I’m fine. It’s just late.”

Sherlock nods at this and sets to work carefully peeling the wax glove from John’s hand. He’s right: It’s rather nice, feeling the incriminating bits come off. As if John’s guilt is coming off with it. He feels his eyes getting heavy as Sherlock works. It’s very late, and though the table is harshly lit the rest of the room is dim. Sherlock’s touch is soft and careful, and everything smells so pleasantly, the white scent of wax and the singular scent of Sherlock: oranges and chemicals, musk and spice. John is almost drunk from the sensations.

“Odd,” Sherlock says when he’s nearly done. “You’re left-handed, but you shoot right-handed.”

It takes John a moment to clear his mind enough to speak. “I was taught right-handed.”

“You carry your phone in your right pocket. Sometimes you’ll shift your fork to your right hand, though most of the time it’s held in the left.”

“I can write right-handed. I had to, right after I got shot.”

Sherlock perks up noticeably. “You’re ambidextrous. How fascinating.”

“Most lefties are to some extent.”

“Not to your extent. You’re almost equally at home with either hand. That’s quite rare.” Sherlock looks envious.

John tilts his head at him. “You mean, I possess a talent that Sherlock Holmes doesn’t?”

“I can write left-handed,” Sherlock says. “Among other things. But forcing my left hand to be dominant requires great concentration on my part, not to mention some frustration. My natural bent constantly reasserts itself. But not you, John. You do as you like, don’t you?”

John looks down and realizes that Sherlock has peeled off all the wax. But he hasn’t let go of John’s hand. His long fingers are stroking John’s wrist. 

“I’m—I’m not really ambidextrous,” John says. 

“No?” Sherlock is still stroking.

“Not really. I just—switch occasionally.”

Sherlock leans in. Despite the light his pupils have grown large, darkening his silvery gaze. “What are you, then?” 

John swallows. “Dunno. Flexible?”

“Flexible. There’s a word.” Sherlock is so close now. “Going by the state of your pupils, not to mention your pulse, I’d say that you are very flexible.”

“Your pupils are dilated too,” John says, fidgeting again.

“Of course. _Natural bents._ What do you suppose mine is?” Sherlock gives him that charming, challenging smile. The one that lured John here to begin with.

He takes a breath. “You—you said you were married to your work.”

“I never said I was faithful,” Sherlock says, and kisses him. 

Let’s be clear: John likes women. Thirty-four women at last count, and he enjoyed every one, even if they do tend to blur together. Not surprising, spread as they are over so many years and continents. Just three men by contrast, and if his times with them are sharper, it must be novelty that makes them so. And beauty: Unlike his women, all of John’s men have been beautiful.

Sherlock certainly is. Not as Sonny was beautiful, golden and leonine. Not polished and perfect like Mark, or fine and fair like Toby. Sherlock is beautiful like the mountains above Bagram—a cold, rare, difficult beauty. But he isn’t cold. His lips are so warm, and when he opens them you taste soy sauce and lemon. He smells like musk and citrus, and he feels—oh, he feels wonderful, his thick silky curls slipping through your fingers. His hands are almost hot as they slide under the hem of your t-shirt, gripping you tight, pulling you close.

John pulls back, breaking the kiss. “I thought you weren’t looking for anything,” he says. The words might sound accusing if it weren’t for the erection. No point trying to hide it—the boxer-briefs don’t conceal anything. (Was Sherlock really worried about the dressing gown, or just trying to get John’s kit off? An interesting query.)

“I thought you were heterosexual,” Sherlock says, raising an eyebrow.

“I am—” he stops, the words catching in his throat. He should explain. But it’s very late, and he can still taste Sherlock. Long fingers are still gripping John in that proprietary fashion. Who is John trying to convince, anyway?

“I know what you are,” Sherlock says. “Friendly. _Flexible.”_ His tongue lingers over the word. “Your shooting instructor, your mate in sixth form, they knew how much, didn’t they?” As he says this, his hand slides up John’s belly. Clever fingers tweak John’s nipple, making him gasp. 

“It was so obvious,” Sherlock whispers in his ear. “Your eyes when you talked about them. You miss them, don’t you? You miss this.” He pulls John’s t-shirt off and flings it towards the lounge. John’s underwear is next, and suddenly he’s standing naked in Sherlock’s kitchen. 

John is about to protest—things are moving very fast, much faster than with the others. Weeks with Sonny, months with Toby, three sodding years with Mark, before anything happened. John wants to say that while the kiss was quite nice (spine-melting, actually) they need to slow down, have a few hundred more conversations before they act upon these feelings. John hasn’t even moved in yet, and what _about_ the fact that they’re flatmates? This could go so very wrong—

John opens his mouth to say as much, but at that moment Sherlock drops to his knees. He freezes John with his gaze. “Shut up,” he says. “Stop thinking so loudly. It’s distracting.” 

“But I—” But then, Sherlock’s mouth has closed around John’s cock. 

He shuts up. He grips the edges of the table and tries not to think. 

But ideas do intrude, the most insistent being that Sherlock has done this before. Many times before, if skill and assurance are anything to judge by. Strange, to think of Sherlock with other men. Impossible to picture him as a shy virgin, tongue-tied and awkward, being seduced, being _instructed._ But someone must have done it, for Sherlock knows what he’s doing. He takes his time, worshipping John’s cock with slow licks and gentle nips. It’s very good head as head goes, in John’s top four at least. Sonny was a bit rougher, much messier, and Toby was—well, he was a teenager, more enthusiastic than skilled. But Toby was first, and that counts for a lot. Sherlock is more like Mark, filthy in a methodical way. Deliberate and confident, like he’s been carefully schooled in the art of sucking cock. Another Eton boy, John would bet his pension on it. 

He is brought out of his pre-orgasmic haze by the feel of cold air on his member. 

Sherlock is glaring up at him, wiping his lips. “Still thinking,” he hisses. “Well. We’ll see.” 

“I’m not—” John cuts off with a cry as Sherlock takes a breath and deep throats him.

He isn’t thinking now. The feeling is _intense_ —it’s all his brain can do to process it, pleasure so deep it almost hurts. Like his cock is being dipped in burning wax, an encompassing heat that seems to get to the very core of him. It’s too much after all he’s been through today. 

But Sherlock doesn’t stop. He just works and stares. Those icy pale eyes hold John fast as that hot, ruthless mouth swallows him down, down. John doesn’t know what’s dirtier, the looking or the sucking, but it doesn’t matter. They’re both getting him to the same place. He feels that red pull in the bottom of his belly, the spiraling heat that’s about to take him. Then the heat _is_ taking him, burning him up like a lightning bolt. He’s saying things—filthy things—but he doesn’t hear them. All John hears is the roaring of blood in his ears, and it’s wonderful. For the first time in hours, the sound of the gunshot is drowned out. Obliterated beyond memory.

It takes him a minute or two to recover from the climax. When he does he realizes that Sherlock has gotten to his feet, and John is leaning against him. He should be self-conscious. Sherlock is still fully clothed while John is as naked as the day he was born: wet, flaccid, and badly scarred to boot. But he doesn’t care. He just enjoys the silence until Sherlock breaks it, speaking softly.

“I’m going to have you now.”

John just nods. He is led around the table, then gently pushed against the wall. He feels slick wallpaper on his face. His nostrils are irritated by the scent of old plaster, but he doesn’t move.

“Wait a moment.” Sherlock is so calm, like he’s asking John to hold on while he pays the dim sum checks. How deeply is any of this touching him? Impossible to say.

John hears a soft rustling sound behind him. He wants to turn around and see, but as soon as he moves he feels a firm hand on his back. “Rest, John. Close your eyes.” 

He does, and despite what they’re about to do, he feels himself slipping into a half-doze. When Sherlock leads him down the hall to the bedroom, he might very well fall asleep. All Sherlock’s fault really, can’t expect a man to stay alert after a brain-blistering orgasm, that wouldn’t be—

John jumps as he feels cool, slick liquid on his back. He recognizes a waxy smell and realizes it’s the mineral oil. He feels his throat tighten. Sherlock is going to have him _right here in the kitchen,_ right up against this dusty old wall and that’s wrong, so wrong. If it gets any wronger John’s new erection is going to suck the last drop of blood from brain and he’ll faint dead away.

“Sherlock—” he begins, but is cut off by the feel of a long, warm, naked body against his back. The rustling was Sherlock taking all his clothes off. John wants to see—it’s rather pathetic how much he wants to—but he’s been firmly pinned in place.

“I know what you’ve been thinking,” Sherlock says, “though I asked you not to think. This is a hasty, foolish, possibly disastrous decision. We barely know each other. We’re about to share this flat together. It’s stupid for me to have you. One of the worst ideas I’ve ever had, and I’ve had my share. It’s wrong, but _it’s going to happen,_ understand?” For the first time, John hears what could be a shake in that smooth voice. “I’m going to have you, for no other reason than I want to. You’re going to let me in. However you define yourself, John Watson, you want this.”

John says nothing. He’s too busy trying to breathe. 

“Tell me you want it.” There’s a definite shake in the words now. 

“I . . . ” John swallows, gasping.

A hand closes around his cock and pulls. John groans and it tugs again, harder. 

“Say it.” The hand that’s not imprisoning his cock slides down John’s back. Slick with the mineral oil, it slides between the cleft of his buttocks. One finger slips inside him, then two, then, dear God, three. It hurts, but it also feels so good, a twitching heat that turns his brain to jelly all over again. It’s been so long since he’s done anything like this. Not since Sonny and that’s more than a year, which is much, much too long— 

Suddenly, the fingers are gone. The warm grip around his cock is gone. All the lovely heat begins to curdle into prickling frustration. John hears a pitiful mewling escape his throat. It would humiliate him, but he’s already buck-naked in Sherlock’s kitchen, covered in wax and mineral oil. A bit of whining can’t faze him.

“Please—” he manages to gasp.

 _“Say it.”_

John pounds his forehead against the wall. “Yes, you insane bloody bastard, I want it. Fuck me, Sherlock. Put your cock inside me before I put you face-first into the fucking wax. Before I shove you in the file under W—excuse me, _R for Residue_ —shag me senseless. Clear enough?”

He can _feel_ Sherlock smirking. Prick. But the hand that runs down John’s arm is sincere, a touch so affectionate it could bring tears to your eyes if you weren’t desperate and irritated.

“If you insist,” Sherlock says. He thrusts slowly into him.

Oh God, so good. All of John’s irritated feelings dance away like so many random sparks. More than a year since he’s done this—how the hell did he ever wait so long—but you don’t forget this feeling. Of being filled, being _taken,_ there’s nothing quite like it. Filling and taking are fun too, but for this time, their first time, John is glad it’s Sherlock inside of him. _Sherlock_ of all people: It’s hard to believe he has a cock under all those clothes but he certainly does, it’s inside of John right now, and it’s big and it’s hard and it is, as promised, shagging him senseless. You wouldn’t think he could improve on the head but he can, he’s so good at this, and John’s been so lonely.

But it’s not just loneliness that makes him feel this way. It’s Sherlock, _Sherlock_ —they’ve known each other two days but it feels much longer. It feels like Sherlock has always been inside him, as if this isn’t a foolish decision but the _only_ decision, one they had to make together. Sherlock is so deep it hurts, thrusting quite brutally, John will probably bleed but he doesn’t care, Sherlock can do anything he wants as long as he never, ever stops touching him.

“Please,” John whispers. And though Sherlock can’t know what he means—nobody could be that clever—he pauses in his thrusts, withdrawing almost completely. Gently, he kisses John’s left shoulder. The one with all the scars. Then slowly, oh so slowly, he slides inside one more time. He reaches around, pumping John’s straining cock in his fist once—twice—

That’s enough: John climaxes, gasping and sobbing into the wallpaper. It feels so good and it hurts like hell, like being turned inside out by God’s own clever hands. He hears Sherlock say something in a low, broken voice. Then he climaxes, too. 

It takes them a long time to come back to themselves. Sherlock must rally first, because John feels him withdrawing carefully. He feels the wetness inside himself and realizes that they did it about as raw as you can do it. Another impulsive decision, one that is not like John at all. But he can’t find any regret in his heart. 

Slowly, he turns around. He finally gets to see Sherlock naked, his whole long, lean form. John is too exhausted to fully appreciate it, but he’s not worried. This won’t be his last opportunity. 

Sherlock is staring like he’s not quite sure where is he is. His smirking self-assurance is gone, replaced by something vulnerable. 

“My God, John,” he whispers. 

He has never looked more beautiful. That must be why this moment registers as it does. Like the moment after you draw your weapon, all your senses blurring except for one. Your vision is perfect, the world crystalline as you take him in. The man you’re going to kiss or the man you’re going to kill—he’s all you see. You know his face, every line and pore. You’ll know it forever.

John kisses Sherlock. Then he pulls back, touching their foreheads together. “You’re right,” he says. “What you said before we both came—it was exactly right.”

Sherlock tries to straighten, still looking gobsmacked. “I don’t remember what I said.”

“What I really am: You got it. Clever boy.” 

“Friendly,” Sherlock says, pushing John’s hair back from his face. “Quite amazingly flexible.”

John stares up at him. “I’m yours,” he says. “Everything else is just—camouflage.”

“Mine. Yes.” Something wondrous in Sherlock’s face as he remembers, as if he’s been lit from the inside. His eyes glow like diamonds. “I’m very clever.”

John has to snort at this. “And modest.”

“And handsome,” Sherlock says, drawing himself up to his full height. “You think so.”

“When did I ever say that?”

“My dear fellow, you were cruising me the second you walked into the lab yesterday. I was quite embarrassed for you.”

“Me? Who was memorizing my stored numbers like some sort of stalker? Who was _winking?”_

“All right,” Sherlock sighs. “I’m as pathetically desperate as you are.” He looks at the wax mess on the table. “You know, you can get powder residue off by washing your hands.”

“I know.” 

Sherlock widens his eyes a bit. “Then why did you let me—” he stops. “For the same reason I suggested it. You are a cunning one, John Watson. I’ll have to watch you closely.”

John peels himself off the wall. “Watch me in the shower. We both need one.”

He’s opening the door to the bath when Sherlock catches his arm. “I’m yours as well,” he says. The words are fast and flat, like he doesn’t quite know how to say them.

John just kisses him again. This is the one he will remember. Clearly and completely, as if he’ll always be here, standing sticky and naked in the kitchen, kissing Sherlock at two in the morning. As he’ll remember the kiss in Toby’s room, the one on Mark’s sofa, the one in Sonny’s quarters at Bagram. He’ll see it like he sees the men he shot by the road outside Charikar. As he can see Jeff Hope’s worn, vicious face. Kissing a man and killing him, the feelings are too close for comfort, maybe. But they are not the same. The heat inside him now isn’t deadly but tender. He wants to protect Sherlock, clever and ruthless as the man may be. Sherlock needs it.

That is what makes him different from the others. They never needed John, not really. Sherlock does, quite desperately. It makes all the difference in the world.

“Mycroft saw it first,” he murmurs into Sherlock’s chest. “How bizarre.”

 _“Mycroft?_ When did he—” Sherlock stiffens, looking around with a grim expression. “I hope you’re not too tired. After our shower, we have work to do.”

John grimaces. “Work? Now?” 

“Yes. While I am not averse to the idea of committing some of our future encounters to video, I’d rather not share private moments with GCHQ. If I know my brother, he has this place wired in high-definition. There’s perversity for you! I have a good mind to send his towels back.” 

He sweeps out like an aggrieved prince. John looks up at the ceiling. Though it’s a very perverse thing to do, he can’t help saluting the camera before he follows Sherlock into the bath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 29 was so long, it deserved its own set of notes. For an in-depth look at everything that went into the sequence, go to my Dreamwidth or Livejournal blogs.
> 
>  
> 
> [Author Notes at Dreamwidth](http://chase820.dreamwidth.org/317081.html)
> 
>  
> 
> [Author Notes at LiveJournal](http://chase820.livejournal.com/326761.html)
> 
>  
> 
> Links to other notes can be found at the end of chapters 5, 12, 20, 23, 28, 32, 38, 42, and 47.


	30. Chapter 30

** John, 31 December 2012 **

_“I’m yours . Everything else is just—camouflage.”_

_“Mine. Yes.”_

That’s how it should have happened. How it would have happened, maybe, if John had thought just a little faster. If he hadn’t told Sherlock the truth about his father—not yet—and if Sherlock hadn’t pursued that painful line of questioning. If John hadn’t run to the waiting cab but gone up the stairs instead, the silence between them might never have gotten started. If they’d found each other the first night, everything could have been different. 

But that’s not what happened. 

John looks up at the ceiling, wiping the fast-drying stickiness from his stomach with a tissue. In the three months since his libido began to come back, he’s developed quite a few fantasies about Sherlock. He’s astonished himself with the depth and depravity of his imagination, considering that he never allowed himself to think about such things when the man was here. Not even after he realized that he was well and truly Sherlocked. Best not to entertain those feelings, for fear of letting something slip. His unconscious wasn’t so careful: It must’ve been brewing these saucy ideas from the very beginning. 

John has his favorites. Baskerville is worth multiple replays. In a fantasy, one can make Henry less crazy and Sherlock less contemptuous, so a threesome becomes a real option. Seb Wilkes occasionally creeps in as guest star. John has suspicions about him and Sherlock, back in their university days, and Seb’s tasty for a trader. Also, the queen of the vampire cult in Sussex: She looked like a goth Jennifer Connolly, when Jen still had a rack. No man too gay to give that a go. Certainly not Sherlock, whose Vulcan act tended to crack whenever there were tits involved. 

Mostly, though, the fantasies are just John and Sherlock. John and Sherlock in the lab at St. Barts, John and Sherlock in the alley by Angelo’s. John and Sherlock on the misty moors, or backstage at the Chinese circus. In Irene Adler’s posh, pillowy bed—John viciously enjoys that one. John and Sherlock at 221 Baker Street, in every single room of the building, including Mrs. Hudson’s quarters and the kitchen at Speedy’s. Even in Afghanistan, John inventing all sorts of scenarios that would somehow land Sherlock in the middle of Parwan Province. (It’s not really fun doing it in the desert—all the sand and spiders—but that’s the power of imagination.)

John’s imaginings, wherever they take place, began with what he has dubbed the Chicken Feet Fantasy. It was the first one John ever allowed himself, the night after he re-opened the blog with his initial pro-Sherlock manifesto. He anticipated the flood of nastiness that was going to wash into his inbox and felt he deserved some distraction. It’s his favorite fantasy but it’s also the most painful, because unlike sex in the dunes or on the moors, John can see it happening in real life. It’s what should have happened— _would_ have, if he hadn’t been a fucking coward.

It didn’t happen. John took the cab and they lost their chance. Perhaps sex wouldn’t have saved Sherlock’s life, though John likes to think that with that extra bit of motivation, he’d have blown Moriarty’s head off at the swimming pool. But even if Reichenbach was still fated to happen, he and Sherlock would have had their time, twenty-nine months of it. John could have met his own fate with fewer regrets.

It won’t be long now. John has sensed something this past week. Amid the holiday crowds swirling around Baker Street, he can feel it. A presence, heavy and real. Someone watching him. He hasn’t been able to spot the source of the gaze, but he knows it’s there. The way he often knew in Afghanistan, a neck-ruffling feeling that came before the bullets started flying.

He carries his own weapon all the time now. He has to be ready. One clear shot is all he needs, but if he isn’t ready he won’t get it. He hopes that Jim Moriarty will be arrogant enough to step out of the shadows, to taunt John the way he taunted Sherlock. He hopes Moriarty still likes his games. John plans to make just one move, sweeping all the pieces off the chess board at once. When you don't care what happens next, mutually assured destruction can be a winning gambit.

He used to feel such contempt for his father, for the man’s lack of caring and foresight. But now he understands. You don’t think about the future when the heart’s been torn out of you. Others don’t see the wound, but you know that you’re just a walking corpse. Why save your pennies? 

John has spent a bit the last three months, during his final campaign. But there’s lots more where that came from. All of it will go to Harry except for a nice fat bequest to Neville. The man will finally get to take some time off, write that bloody book instead of just nattering on about it. It will probably end up being about John and Sherlock, and that’s okay. Nev can have the files. Even if he doesn’t get all the details right, it doesn’t matter. You can’t libel dead men.

One clear shot is what John needs, but it’s not the last one he will take. Once Moriarty’s brains are on the pavement, there will be plenty of ammunition left. John won’t sit in a cell for the rest of his life, an embarrassing burden to his sister. In these past few weeks, as he’s pictured the end more and more clearly, he’s realized that it must _be_ the end. One as final as stepping off a ledge. He doesn’t expect anything beyond; all he wants is darkness and silence. The absence of pain.

Silent darkness has become a recurring fantasy recently. He’s not sure how much longer he’ll be able to make himself believe the others, even for the brief time it takes to bring himself off. Chicken feet and late night trysts are titillating, but they’re not real. That’s _not_ how it happened. 

John starts at a sudden pounding on the door.

“Anybody home? Hey, big brother—are you decent?”

He sees the knob turning and jumps up. _Shit._ Harry hasn’t changed one bit since he was 16 and she was 14. He could never wank in peace in Slough, either. 

He shoves the tissue in his pocket and belts the robe tightly, hiding his shame mere nanoseconds before the bedroom door flings wide.

Harry pokes her spikey blonde head in. “What are you doing sleeping? It’s six in the evening.”

“Busy night in the forums last night,” John says, faking a yawn. “The new post and all.”

“Hmm, yes,” Harry says, leaning against the doorframe and crossing her arms. “How did you get Lestrade to admit that they haven’t released any of Sherlock’s perps from prison? The PC’s going to have his ass for that.”

“Guilt is an amazing motivator.” But it’s not the only thing loosening Greg’s lips. Red eyes, shaking hands—he’s the picture of a self-destructive cop these days. If John wasn’t sure about the DI’s heterosexuality, he might suspect Greg was harboring his own infatuation with a dead man. John wishes he were. If Greg was suffering twice as much as John is, it wouldn’t be half as much as he deserves.

Sergeant Donovan deserves worse, of course. But John guesses she’s not drinking herself into an early grave over Sherlock. Not that he knows for certain: He hasn’t laid eyes on her in six months. Doesn’t trust himself. 

“You’re making enemies, John,” Harry says, shaking her head. “Personal vendettas are all very well, but you have to live in this city.”

 _Not much longer._ “I’m not worried.”

“Well, I’m bloody worried. Not that it’s ever stopped you.” 

John rises from the bed, sticking his hands in his pockets and trying to look nonchalant. “What are you doing here?”

She shrugs. “I haven’t seen you in days. Just popping by. Is that allowed?”

Uh-huh. Big city solicitors who work 80-hour weeks don’t ‘pop’ anywhere. They pencil you in three weeks in advance. Harry has an agenda of some kind, probably something to do with his conversation with Clara this morning. But if his sister wants to play it cool, John doesn’t care.

“Want a cuppa?” he says.

“Please. I had a horrid day at work. Won’t go into details, but suffice to say that the next time a certain red-haired royal gets snapped with a dildo up his ass, _The Sun_ can fucking crucify him for all I care. Fucking idiot.”

“Our tax dollars at work, eh?”

Harry just sighs and heads for the kitchen.

“Still,” John says as he follows her, “it’s nice that Mycroft’s throwing your firm the case. Doesn’t get much more Establishment than that.”

“I didn’t bust my ass at Oxford to spend my days paying off the paparazzi. Especially not for the benefit of an inbred muppet.” Harry pinches her thumb and forefinger nearly together. “I’m this close to turning communist. Seriously: This. Close.”

“Earl Grey or Oolong, Comrade?”

Harry sits at the granite-topped table, scrubbing hands through her hair until it sticks straight up. “Earl Grey. Don’t forget—two bags. _Lots_ of sugar.” 

“You’re going to have heart palpitations,” John says, but it’s a reflex nag. They’ve been having this same conversation since Harry was seven.

“So,” she says, when they’re sitting at the table sipping companionably, “Vendettas aside, how are things?”

“Not bad. Did I tell you a film producer wants to option the blog? Offered me a rather shocking amount of money. We’re talking high six figures.”

Harry blinks at that. “Are you going to do it?”

“Dunno,” John says, shrugging. “Don’t really need the cash. But he has some interesting ideas. Says that if I really want to sway the teeming masses, I have to sell them a good story. Thought I was already doing that, but he seems to think he can do better. Arrogant sod, but you can’t really disagree with five Oscars, can you?”

 _“Five?_ Who is he, Stanley Kubrick?”

“Kubrick never won an Oscar. Well, he did, but it was special effects in _2001,_ and who cares about that? He should’ve won Best Director for _Clockwork Orange,_ but the X rating hurt his—”

“Oh, fuck Kubrick. Who wants the blog?”

John pauses for proper effect. “Ford Huxley.” 

Harry whistles. “Wow. Clara will pee herself. She makes her freshmen watch his version of _The Yellow Wallpaper_ every term. Funny, I took AmLit and _I_ don’t remember the story having that many tits in it. Not that I mind: Violet Rucastle can get naked in every movie if she likes.”

John wrinkles his nose. He was never much on gamine women, and since Irene Adler he has a positive aversion. Must be like shagging a Vermicious Knid, all staring eyes and pointy bits.

“Ford bloody Huxley,” Harry says, dipping her teabags thoughtfully. “What’s he like?”

“No idea. Never met the man in person. We’ve just exchanged e-mails. He’s a persistent bugger, I do know that. I turned him down flat the first three times, but he just kept on.”

“Seems odd, doesn’t it? He must have his pick of scripts.”

“I asked him that. He said he has a unique perspective on the material, whatever that means. Perhaps he’ll explain when we finally do meet up. He’s supposed to be in town next week.”

“Don’t sign a fucking thing until I see the papers. I don’t trust Hollywood types.”

“He _is_ English. Old British Establishment, if his Wikipedia is anything to go by.”

“Worse and worse. Another upper-class headcase, that’s all you need.”

John stiffens at this. Harry never liked Sherlock, and it was only partly to do with his charming personality. After years of enduring venomous condescension at Oxford, his sister has a chip on her shoulder roughly the size of Shropshire. Sherlock’s obvious poshness doomed him before he ever opened his mouth. Which was fine once upon a time, when Sherlock was alive and able to defend himself. Which he did mostly by regarding Harry with amused irritation, like she was a scruffy kitten clawing at his bespoke trousers. But now that the man is dead, she could be more fucking sensitive.

“What do you want, Harry?” John says, already tired of this conversation. “Why are you here?”

“I love you too, big brother.” She runs a pensive finger around the rim of her cup. “Clara said you’re not coming tonight. Why?”

“Wine and Scrabble? It’s not really my idea of a cracking celebration.”

“There won’t be any wine,” Harry retorts. “Amy and Olivia are bringing seafood paella. Harry’s doing her cappuccino cheesecake. We’ll probably watch a film after— _maybe_ play Pictionary. It will be nice.” 

_If I were a fifty-year-old lesbian, yes._ “I appreciate the invite, but no thanks.” 

John sees her lips turn down in that dangerous way, and sighs. He can’t weather one of his sister’s strops right now. “Anyway, I’ve already made plans with Nev.”

“Really?” Harry’s expression brightens. “What plans?”

“Drinks at the Cock and Bull. Maybe another place after, if the cover isn’t too ridiculous.”

“Aren’t you a little old for bar hopping?”

“Aren’t you a little young for Pictionary?”

“We play the dirty kind,” Harry says defensively. Then she shrugs, smiling. “But it’s nice that you’re seeing Nev. I like him.”

Of course she does. She might like him even if he were posh instead of thoroughly middle class. Neville has the non-threatening boy act down cold. You’d never know what a vicious bastard he can be if you didn’t read his blog. 

“Seriously. _I like him.”_

John looks up at her, frowning. 

“I mean, he’s the first good relationship decision you’ve made in ages.”

“Harriet. No. It’s not like that.”

Her lips are turning down again. “Why the hell not? He’s adorable. You’re not gonna do better than that, John. Objectively speaking, he’s kind of out of your league, but you two clearly have this connection—”

“Oh my God,” John gets up from the table and flees into the lounge.

Harry is in hot pursuit. “Shag him already. Christ, are you going to play this game? _Again?”_

John spins around. “That is none of your fucking business!”

“Yes,” Harry hisses, “it is. You were clinically depressed for months. I was there, remember? But now you’re better, and that started when Neville came into the picture. I’m not surprised, he’s awesome. He’s fucking adorable, and he’s nice to you, and he’s smart—not as smart as some people, but one can be _too_ smart. I think we both know that.”

“Harry,” John says. “Stop. Please.”

“Sherlock is dead,” she says quietly. “He’s dead, John. And I’m so sorry about that. But Nev is alive, and he’s obviously into you. If you’re not with him, you should be. You’ve got to start moving on, darling.” 

John turns away. He can’t look at her. He can’t stand for her to see him tearing up like a kid. 

“You should sell the blog rights. Not for the money, I know you don’t need it. So you _can_ move on. Let Ford Huxley tell the story—he’s a professional, and he’s not personally involved. With his clout and reputation—” she stops. “He does believe Sherlock was telling the truth, right?”

John nods. Huxley does believe in Sherlock Holmes. He was quite clear on that point.

“Wonderful. Let him have the blog, then. You’ve done an amazing thing, getting someone like Huxley interested. He’ll do Sherlock justice. You can start over with a clear conscience.”

“Start over,” John repeats dully, wiping his eyes. He can’t wrap his head around the words.

“Yes. The future—don’t you ever think about it?”

He turns around. He looks at her a minute. He feels it then, his love for his sister. Every bouncy, brash, annoying inch of her. But he can’t lie. Because he loves her, he can’t keep doing it.

“No,” he says. “Not anymore.”

Harry’s eyes widen. Then they fill with tears. 

“Fuck you, John,” she says, voice shaking. “You’re not turning into Daddy. After what he did to us, how dare you. _How dare you?”_

John sighs. “What did he do to us, Harry?” 

“You’re kidding, right? Eight years of abuse. That’s what he bloody did.”

“No,” John protests. “He wasn’t there much, but—”

“Leaving us for days with no money and no food? That’s abuse. When he _was_ home, drinking himself into a stupor every night while we ran around like wild little monkeys? Abuse. Never giving us decent clothes, a decent house? _Abuse._ And it wasn’t all, was it? The night you broke his bottle of Glenfiddich—”

“Christ, it was one time. It doesn’t count—”

“He bloodied your nose. As a very highly paid solicitor, I can tell you: _It fucking counts.”_

Harry is trembling all over, five feet of concentrated fury. “If he was still alive, I’d bang him up on charges myself. But he’s not, so all I can say is that I hope that piece of shit burns in hell. I didn’t used to hope it. I was like you, in total denial. I couldn’t admit that I hated his fucking guts. I didn’t deal, I drank. I almost threw everything away, just like you’re doing now.

“Rage, John,” Harry whispers. “It’s where our sadness came from. Depression is rage turned inward, any decent shrink will tell you. I had a very good shrink: I’ve dealt with my denial. I thought you’d dealt with yours, that you were getting better. But you’re not, are you? You’re going right back to your old ways, acting like the good soldier. One who is praying for a bullet in the brain. You’re waiting to die, just like Daddy. Cowards, both of you. Fucking cowards.”

John stares at her speechlessly. Harry nods.

“You’re waiting for _him,_ aren’t you? Moriarty. You’re planning something, something awful. You can’t fool me, I know you. Which means I know that I can’t stop you. But if you do it, if you throw your future away—your _family_ —I’ll hate you forever. Don’t expect flowers on your grave. I’ll flush your ashes down the loo, I swear. My kids won’t know your name. I haven’t forgiven Daddy, and I won’t forgive you. Think about that while you’re polishing your gun.”

Harry spins around and stalks out of the lounge, slamming the door to the vestibule so hard that the pictures on the walls shake. A minute later comes another slam—the door to the street.

John stands there a moment, blinking. Then he walks over to the desk and picks up his mobile.

**Changed my mind about tonight. Let’s go. —J**

A minute later, the phone buzzes. 

**At last the man sees sense. 9 at C &B. Buckle up, it’s gonna be etc. & etc.**

Thirty seconds later, another buzz:

**DON’T wear the tan jumper. Told you I could get you into Shadow Lounge but I’m not an effing magician. —N**

John hadn’t actually planned to go out tonight, despite Nev’s pleadings. But his change of heart doesn’t mean he’s taking Harry’s advice. His sister has always had a bent towards the dramatic; it’s what makes her such a good lawyer. His plans haven’t changed, not in regards to Moriarty, and certainly not where Neville is concerned. The only decision he’s reconsidered is whether or not to get totally shitfaced. Why not? It’s New Year’s Eve. 

But he’s got hours before he has to meet Nev. The blog has gone quiet this afternoon, all of his loyal readers busy with their own evening plans. John has time to kill.

He walks back down the hall to Sherlock’s room. He supposes it’s really his room now, like the rest of the building. He gave Mrs. Hudson a more than fair price. But he’ll never stop thinking of this room as Sherlock’s. It hasn’t changed at all in six months. Sherlock’s suits still hang in the closet. His sock index is in perfect order in the top drawer of the chest. The bust of Goethe glares from the curio. The pictures are in the same places: the etching of Isaac Newton by the window, Sherlock’s first-rank judo certificate over the bed, the periodic table near the door. If Sherlock were to walk back into the room today, he wouldn’t find anything out of place. 

That will not happen. It’s the one fantasy John never creates, Sherlock coming back. John saw him fall—whenever he closes his eyes, he sees it. All that red blood on grey concrete. There’s no getting around the image. Sherlock is dead, and his untouched room is already taking on the chill, airless quality of a museum display. Though John sleeps here every night, it doesn’t feel as if anyone occupies the space. He’s just one more dusty object in the display, an artifact left over from a time that has passed. 

When he’s gone, Harry will sell the place. Yuppies will buy it and gut it, turning it into one of those beige and white modern showplaces, like so many of the renovated rowhouses in London. Even if Ford Huxley reclaims Sherlock’s reputation, there won’t be a museum on Baker Street. John doesn’t care: He won’t be here. 

He’s here now, though, and it’s hours before he has to meet Nev. He lies on the bed and loosens his dressing gown. He rests his hands on his belly and looks up at the ceiling. 

_“Well?”_

_“It’s—interesting.”_

_“Give it a chance. You’ll get used to it.”_

_“If I had a quid for every time I heard that—”_

_“Yes?”_

_“I’d have a few quid. You remind me of a mate of mine from sixth form. Always pushing me to try new things.”_

_“Did you enjoy them?”_

_“Some of them. I’m afraid the appeal of chicken feet is lost on me.”_

_“Pity. I’ll have to think of something else for you to try.”_

_John smiles brilliantly. “You do that.”_


	31. Chapter 31

** John, 31 December 2012 (cont.) **

_She's not a girl who misses much_  
 _Do do do do do do, oh yeah_

_She's well acquainted_  
 _With the touch of the velvet hand_  
 _Like a lizard on a window pane_  
 _The man in the crowd with the_  
 _Multicolored mirrors on his hobnail boots_

_Lying with his eyes_  
 _While his hands are busy working overtime_  
 _A soap impression of his wife_  
 _Which he made and donated to the National Trust_

_I need a fix ‘cause I'm going down_  
 _Down to the bits that I left uptown_  
 _I need a fix ‘cause I'm going down_

_“Really,_ Neville?” Sheila snaps. “It’s bloody New Year’s.”

Neville waves her off. _“The White Album,_ love! Charlie Manson liked it, why can’t you?”

She gives him two fingers and turns to serve a gaggle of City traders standing at the bar.

Nev turns back to John. “He did. Even mass-murdering psychopaths get it right sometimes.” He takes a long pull from his pint.

By the time John turned up at The Cock and Bull around 9:15, the place was already crowded. Nev had gotten there early and secured them a table in the corner, where they could observe all the comings and goings. Which was great, but in order to hold their place he had already been through several drinks before John arrived, and an hour later shows no signs of slowing down. 

“All right, Nev?” John says, as Nev takes a second pull, draining the pint.

“Cracking,” he says, and signals to the waitress. Once she brings the refill and he takes another swallow, he says:

“Ford Huxley? Really? I can’t believe you’ve been sitting on this for two weeks.”

“I didn’t want to say anything until I thought it was a real possibility.”

“I vote no,” Nev says. “Assuming I get a vote. Movie versions never tell the truth. If you want the story out there, a documentary would be the way to go. I know a couple blokes at the BBC, I could sound them out. Even if you are set on going Hollywood, you don’t want Huxley.”

“Why not? He’s brilliant.”

“He’s a total control freak. He’s also an arrogant asshole. I met him once, years ago. I was just a sweet young thing, sent to cover the London opening of one of his flicks. _Wallpaper,_ I think. He was a nightmare on the red carpet. Barely answered questions from the major media outlets, and he looked straight through yours truly. Didn’t even get his star to show up—Violet what’s-her-name. Bloody disaster all around. Is that who you want handling this?” 

“I don’t care if he's an ass, if he can get my blog right.”

“It won’t be your blog anymore, J. It won’t be your story. I told you, Huxley is an obsessive freak. Another example: Two years ago, I did a blog post about him. This was right after he won all those Oscars for _The Secret History._ Okay, the title of the post was a bit inflammatory: _Hey Ford, Stanley Wants His One-Point Perspective Shots Back._ But I had a point. You can see the Kubrick touch all over Huxley’s films. The post was fucking beautiful. I had screencaps, I had YouTube clips. I mean, it took days to put it together. I wasn’t even saying he was ripping Kubrick off—I was just showing the influence. There was no need to get litigious about it.” 

John blinks. “He threatened to sue you?”

 _“He_ didn’t. I told you, Huxley doesn’t speak to the little folks. His lawyers did, though. Got all bent out of shape about the vids and screencaps, one of the nastiest C &D’s I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen a few. I argued fair use, but once I realized they were determined to be dicks I pulled the post. At that point, I figured Huxley didn’t deserve my brilliance.” 

“Hmm. That is food for thought.”

“Just so we’re clear, when it comes to anything I’ve written, Ford Huxley can fuck right off.” Neville takes another swallow of beer, scowling. John sees that his finely stubbled jaw is tense, his large blue eyes shadowed beneath. His fingers tap nervously on the mug, in time to what is one of the strangest songs on a very strange album:

_Happiness is a warm gun_  
 _(Bang bang, shoot shoot)_

_When I hold you in my arms_  
 _And I feel my finger on your trigger_  
 _I know nobody can do me no harm_  
 _Because happiness is a warm gun_

_(Bang bang, shoot shoot)_  
 _Happiness is a warm gun, yes it is_

“Huxley’s hot, though,” Neville says morosely.

“Yeah?”

“Scorching, if you can ignore the personality. Not a mass-murdering psychopath, but definitely a high-functioning sociopath. Why are so many total cunts fucking beautiful? It’s a mystery.” Neville stares into the dregs of his beer. “I bet Huxley has never been lonely a day in his life.”

“Are you sure you’re all right, Nev?” John says, peering at him.

Neville continues looking down a second, lips pursed, like he’s trying to keep the words in. Finally he sighs, looks up blearily, and says, “Angie’s pregnant.”

“Angie? Your ex?”

“Yup. About five months along,” Neville says. “I just thought she’d gained a few pounds. But Sophie called tonight, right after you texted. She wanted to wish dear old Dad a happy new year. She was just about bursting with excitement—I mean, Soph’s always a little ADD, she gets that from me apparently, but tonight it was different. Angie and Nigel had just given her the news; she can expect a baby brother in April. She was supposed to keep it quiet longer, but unlike me, Soph’s not much with secrets.”

“I see. Um, congrats to them?”

“Are you joking? That’s right, you haven’t seen Nigel, have you? His head is _perfectly square._ You could balance a fully laden tea tray on it, not spill a drop or a crumb. I weep for that poor fetus, I do.” Seeing John’s face: “What?”

“Nothing.”

“Something. You’ve got such a puss on! Out with it.”

“It’s just—if I didn’t know better, I’d say you were jealous.”

Neville sits straight up, scowling. “I’ve been divorced five years. What kind of pathetic twat do you think I am?”

John takes a sip of beer, saying nothing. After a few moments, Nev visibly deflates. He signals the waitress. “Jägermeister, love. Leave the bottle.” 

He doesn’t speak again until he’s had a tall shot of the black liqueur. When he does speak, his words are noticeably slurred for the first time tonight. But Neville regards John lucidly enough. 

“Ang and I have known each other since we were six,” he says. “She was the first girl I ever kissed. The first person I shagged. We were together fourteen years, married for seven of those. She’s the mother of my daughter. Now she’s knocked up by some bloody engineer with a flat-top hairdo, and she never saw fit to inform me of the fact.” 

His hands tighten on the glass. “I get it, okay? I cheated on her with every twink in London. She has a right to hate me. But I have a right to hate this. How very much I’ve been replaced.”

For a minute he looks like he’s about to cry. Then he gathers himself, cocks his head towards the jukebox a second, and grins. “‘Ob-la-di, ob-la-da, life goes on,’ yeah? Lennon had it right.”

“I think McCartney wrote this one.”

“Well! That’s different, then. Can’t take advice from a man who married a one-legged gold-digger.” Nev is still grinning, but his eyes are red and sad. “I sang this song to Angie at our wedding reception. I was twenty years old and totally wasted, but it was a big hit with the crowd. Still have the videotape somewhere. That one’s not going up on YouTube.”

They are silent a minute, listening to the end of the song. As soon as the bouncy piano notes end, there’s a long pause. Then the Black Eyed Peas start blaring from the jukebox. 

Neville’s head jerks up. “Oi, Sheila! I have one more track to go. ‘Tomorrow Never Knows,’ I was really looking forward it!”

“Sod off, Nev. It’s New Year’s.” Sheila walks briskly away from the jukebox.

“Yeah, that’s about par for this evening,” Neville sighs, pouring another shot of Jäger. Then, rather too casually: “Have you ever thought about kids, J?”

“Sure,” John says. “How much I don’t want any.”

“Really? You look like a dad. I think it’s the jumpers.”

“Wow. Thanks.”

“I didn’t mean it that way. That’s a cracking suit you’re wearing, in case I haven’t mentioned it.”

The suit is the best one John owns. He hasn’t worn it since Moriarty’s trial. It’s this memory, not the jumper comment, that’s making John frown. But Neville looks apologetic, saying,

“You know you’re adorable. I just—”

“I know what you mean,” John says. “But no. I used to think I’d make a pretty good uncle—Harry’s always wanted kids. She and Clara are ready to take the plunge, if my sis can ever find a sperm donor that meets her standards.”

“She hasn’t asked you?” When John stares: “I mean, it seems logical. Not you and her of course, but if Clara is carrying, and I figure she would. She looks like the mum in that pair.”

“Clara _is_ carrying. But Harry hasn’t asked. She knows I’d say no.”

“Why? It’s just sperm.”

“Why don’t you send Angie a congratulatory fruit basket? Just sperm, right?”

Neville opens his mouth, then closes it. When he manages to talk, he says, “I have to piss.”

John watches his wavering progress across the bar, feeling rather guilty. It was a bit rude for Neville to bring that up, but John’s response was worse. Why the question pissed him off, he can’t say. It was personal, but he and Neville have been friends for some time. They have a history together. When someone has seen you coming your brains out—when he’s been the cause—asking about your potential as sperm donor is not completely out of line. 

Once upon a time, John might have said yes. If Harry had asked him a year ago, he might have. But not now. Even if Harry and Clara were the official parents, it would still be John’s baby, at least biologically. He can’t leave a child with his legacy to bear, one worse than what James Watson left him. John won’t ever be a father, or even an uncle. That’s probably best.

He grabs Neville’s Jäger bottle and pours a double-shot into his empty pint glass. By the time Nev has made it back from the loo, the glass is almost empty again. John is still shuddering from the biting licorice taste of the liqueur. But everything is looking rosier, or at least blurrier.

“I’m sorry,” John says before Nev sits down. “Weird night all ‘round, eh?”

“I blame Sheila,” Neville says, giving John a conciliatory smile. “The Black Eyed Peas are enough to make anyone lose his rag.” His smile becomes a smirk. “I’ve fixed that.”

From the speakers overhead comes a wall of psychedelic sound. 

_Turn off your mind, relax, and float downstream_  
 _It is not dying, it is not dying_  
 _Lay down all thoughts surrender to the void_  
 _It is shining, it is shining_  
 _That you may see the meaning of within_  
 _It is being, it is being_

John rolls his eyes. “Sheila is going to strangle you with your own testes.”

“Sheila is in the kitchen supervising the fry cook. Won’t be back for at least ten minutes. Anyway, no reward without risk, eh?” Nev picks up the Jäger bottle.

“You are a man obsessed.”

“Shh, love. Listen to Mr. Lennon. He knows what he’s talking about.”

John listens, frowning. He likes the Beatles, but he’s never liked this song much. Hippy-dippy bullshit, the product of one too many acid trips. 

“What?” Neville says. “You prefer the Black Eyed Peas?”

“God no. But what the hell is this supposed to be about, anyway?” 

“Death,” Neville says. “Of the ego, and all the bad shit that comes with it: anger, grief, desire. Lennon based the lyrics on _The Tibetan Book of the Dead.”_

“Never read it. Sounds creepy.”

“It’s amazing, actually. It was written by a Tibetan guru in the 8th Century, as a kind of guide book. Instructions for the soul in limbo, after one life has ended and the next hasn’t yet begun. How to let go of all the bad karma from your past lives, making sure you don’t make the same mistakes over and over. Very potent stuff if you get a good translation.”

“You believe in reincarnation?” John says, surprised. Neville has never struck him as mystical.

“I believe in new beginnings,” Neville says. “One interesting point in _The Tibetan Book of the Dead_ is that any moment of true consciousness can be just that. A rare moment of renewal, coming between the immediate past and the oncoming future. If we can simply stop and see the world around us, the possibilities which exist, we will see miracles. We’ll make them happen.” 

Neville’s voice trails off. For a moment he seems transfixed, his enormous blue eyes focused on a point beyond John’s shoulder. 

_Love is all and love is everyone_  
 _It is knowing, it is knowing_  
 _And ignorance and hate they mourn the dead_  
 _It is believing, it is believing_  
 _But listen to the color of your dreams_  
 _It is not living, it is not living_  
 _So play the game Existence to the end_  
 _Of the beginning, of the beginning_

Then the song ends, soon followed by Adele’s latest hit, and he blinks and comes back. “Not exactly normal pub conversation, is it? Still, it’s New Year’s. Time to think about the future. 2013, John! I can scarcely believe it.”

John doesn’t answer. Mysticism is all very well as pub conversation, but in the end it’s more hippy-dippy bullshit. A year ago he might have believed in possibilities—even though he and Sherlock were imprisoned in a warehouse in Sussex last New Year’s, tied up as tasty snacks for a busty vamp queen and her spotty-faced minions. He didn’t give up hope, even then. He knew Sherlock would think of something, and Sherlock did. A year ago John thought they might still make it to Mykonos, once the bite marks healed.

He thought 2012 was going to be amazing, and it was. He’s still totally amazed by the events of last summer. How quickly his world fell apart. 

“What can you possibly think is coming, Nev?” John says. “What miracles?” 

“I dunno.” Neville shrugs. “Maybe a rich and beautiful man will come along and sweep me off my feet. Engage in witty banter and then shag me rotten, just like a hero in an Austen novel.”

“There’s no shagging in Jane Austen. What else?”

“Maybe I’ll write a best-selling book. Something sexy and shocking, like _Fifty Shades of Grey.”_

“You’ll never write something like that. Not without a traumatic brain injury. Next guess?”

Neville looks at John a moment. When he speaks, it’s quietly.

“Maybe you’ll stop missing him so much. That would be miracle enough for me.”

Suddenly the room is too loud, a dozen conversations interlaced with Adele blaring in his ears. The lights are too glaring, the colors of the pub too bright. Fifty shades of red, making John feel sick. He shouldn’t have had Jäger on top of all the beer. He shouldn’t have come tonight.

John doesn’t speak. He doesn’t move. He just listens to the music. Adele’s latest, the theme from the new James Bond, _Skyfall._ He used to watch Bond movies at Baker Street sometimes. Sherlock would rip them to shreds—he said if they wanted to portray the true spy experience, Bond would spend half the movie filling out paperwork. The only thing Sherlock approved of was Judi Dench: _“Look at her, John. There’s a woman who could shoot a defector in the face.”_

John hasn’t seen the new Bond, though Harry and Clara asked him to go. Couldn’t bear it.

The tide of grief that spills over him leaves John breathless, a feeling every bit as sharp and raw as it was six months ago. Yes, 2012 was amazing. He’ll never get over it, this amazement.

He doesn’t know what’s on his face, but Neville puts his hand on John’s, squeezing tight. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I know—I do. But you asked.” He bites his lip uncertainly. “You don’t talk about Sherlock. You write about him constantly, but you never _say_ anything. I think you should talk more, J. You might feel better if you got the words out. You do think about him, I know that.” Neville pauses again, looking sad. “He’s all you think about.”

John doesn’t answer—he can’t. As he stares at Neville, Adele finishes, fading into “Gangnam Style,” which is unbearable in a totally different way. The grey tide inside him recedes a bit. He can speak again, but not about Sherlock. When it comes to him, John has nothing to say. 

“I’m fine,” he says, straightening up and pulling his hand away. “Really. It’s all fine.”

“Right,” Neville sighs, after a moment. “Well. Drink up then. We have to head for the Shadow Lounge soon, and their liquor is twice the price. It’s only economical to get good and bladdered before we get there.” When John reaches for the Jäger: “I knew that would motivate you! How a millionaire can be so bloody tight, _that’s_ a miracle.”


	32. Chapter 32

** John, 31 December 2012-1 January 2013 **

They never make it to the Shadow Lounge. Jägershots soon become Jägerbombs, and the potent combination of beer and black liqueur makes them lose track of time. John at least has the good sense to start backing off at around 11, when it becomes clear that Neville isn’t going to. One of them has to be responsible for getting them home safely. Also, John would rather not spend New Year’s Day vomiting his guts out.

Neville shows no such scruples. By quarter to 12 the bottle of Jäger is gone, and Nev has begun a meaningful eyefuck relationship with one of the City traders sitting across the bar. Normally, it’s none of John’s business if his friend wants to shag soulless yuppies, but Neville is not in a state to make that decision. When John sees the trader rising from his table, he gives him a _fuck off_ look of serious wattage and starts steering Neville towards the door. 

“Wait,” Nev says. “He’s cute.”

“No, he isn’t. Red braces and capped teeth: Jesus wept.”

John shoves open the pub door and, keeping one arm around Neville to steady him, gets them onto the sidewalk. He starts looking around for a cab.

“Not fair,” Neville whines. “You don’t want me to have any fun.”

“If by fun you mean ‘gonorrhea,’ yes.” 

“Lemme go!” Neville makes as if to lunge for the door.

John tightens his grip—thankful for the stone and a half he has on Neville, even if they are the same height. Neville’s total inebriation helps too. But Neville, persistent as always, is resisting. Before it can become a truly pathetic tug-of-war, John sees a cab and waves it down. Soon he’s hustling Neville inside, using the arm-twist/head-push method beloved by cops everywhere. 

John slides in beside him and slams the door. “221 Baker Street,” he says to the cabbie, a middle-aged, Middle Eastern man with a Bluetooth headpiece. The cabbie nods and starts the meter without pausing in his conversation.

 _That’s Farsi,_ John thinks. _His sister’s youngest son is dating an English girl, and that’s—no, wait, an English_ boy. _Worse and worse._

He smothers a smirk before the cabbie can realize he’s been understood. John turns his attention back to Neville, who is curled up in the corner, pouting.

“Take me home,” Neville says, raising his chin. He’s attempting an air of wounded dignity, but the red eyes and the state of his hair—curls rioting everywhere—works against him. He looks like a very drunk, very petulant sixteen-year-old. This time, John has to smirk.

“You’re coming home with me. When you start vomiting in your sleep, I need to be there.”

“Not gonna—” Neville cuts off, putting a hand to his middle. His white skin goes green. “Oh God, John. I am gonna—”

“Not in the cab!” The driver says, slowing down.

“It’s fine,” John says quickly. “He’s fine. Keep driving—there’s an extra twenty in it if you can get us home in ten minutes.” He turns to Neville. “Stop thrashing about. Come here.”

Neville does, putting his head on John’s shoulder. His silky curls tickle John’s cheek. “Fucking Jäger. Why do we do it, J? Why?”

“Don’t talk. Just breathe.” 

Neville makes a whimpering sound, half crawling into John’s lap. John pats his sweaty head. “You’ll be fine, Nev. A good night’s sleep will fix you right up. I’ll make eggs in the—”

“Stop talking about food!” Neville says, shuddering.

“Sorry.” 

“Shut up.” Neville burrows his face into John’s shoulder. “Pat my head again.”

John does, while the cab speeds them home. Neville falls silent except for the occasional burp. Under the reek of liquor fumes, he smells good. John has always meant to ask him the name of his cologne, a spicy scent with hints of lavender and leather. He never seems to remember when Nev is _compos mentis,_ though.

The cabbie ends the chat about his nephew and begins another, regarding Southampton’s chances against Arsenal tomorrow. John would like to set him straight on a few points—namely, that the Saints don’t stand a chance against the Gunners. But if he wants to get home before dawn, best not to open that can of worms.

Neville groans, curling up fetus style in the corner again. John leads his own head back against the seat. Like all cabs it smells like sweat and plastic, which isn’t making his stomach feel great. He didn’t have as many Jägerbombs as Nev, but he did have a few. When he closes his eyes, he can feel his head spinning. 

Under the cabbie’s rapid-fire discourse, the radio is playing. The Adele song again—not very surprising, the film was a hit. It’s pretty good as Bond themes go. Not as good as “Goldfinger,” (what is?) but much better than, say, “Die Another Day.” Madonna as a Bond girl, blech.

Adele could be one, though. She’s plumper than most but John has never minded a woman with some meat on her bones. Better than the other kind—skinny girls are _mean._ Exhibit A: Madonna. See also: Irene Adler. Very skinny and very mean. What did Sherlock ever see in her? John will go to his grave wondering.

_This is the end_  
 _Hold your breath and count to ten_  
 _Feel the earth move and then_  
 _Hear my heart burst again_  
 _For this is the end_

Yes, this is a good song. Even if it makes him think too much. But it doesn’t really take a sad pop song to make him think of Sherlock. Everything does. What would they be doing tonight if he were alive? Mired in a case? Lounging at Baker Street? Standing on the beach at Mykonos?

If John were normal, undamaged, perhaps he could move on. If he were stronger. Like Grandpa Hans was strong—he buried three wives and the old man was courting a fourth when he dropped dead from the stroke. John’s grandfather believed in new beginnings, right until the very end.

John can’t start over. Even with a new beginning staring him in the face, pleading with big blue eyes. It would be easy to have Neville, as easy as it was during their night together 18 months ago. But it wouldn’t be right, when John can’t offer anything but sex. Certainly not a future.

The song is ending as the cab pulls up to the curb. John gets out and shoves a wad of bills at the driver. Neville calls him cheap, but John pays when services are rendered well. The cab got them to Baker Street quickly: It’s not quite midnight. Still a minute or so left in this rotten old year.

John gets Neville out of the cab in the nick of time. Nev doesn’t say a thing, not even a belch in warning before he bends over and vomits into the gutter. John kneels by him, patting his back.

“Good lad,” he says. “You made it.”

“Yay me,” Neville rasps, swiping at his mouth. 

John puts an arm around him and leads them up the steps.

Looking back on it later, John realizes he should have noticed something was different before he got the door open. He should have seen that the bit of paper he always leaves caught in the door had fluttered to the top step. But he had his hands full of keys and Neville, as well as a head full of Jäger. Also, there were screams and fireworks off in the distance, further adding to the chaos.

So he doesn’t notice. Not until he gets the door open and sees the lights on upstairs. He hears the sound of his TV, echoing the screams and fireworks outside but louder. It must be tuned to the coverage of the celebrations down by the Thames. Someone is enjoying the chaos.

John freezes in place. He feels his heart speed up, and his breathing. The sounds in his ears are suddenly muffled, like he’s listening to the world through cotton batting. But his vision is very clear. In this moment he can see everything: each grain of dirt on the steps, every brush stroke on the glossy front door. The sweat droplets on Neville’s face shine like diamonds.

“Stay here,” John says.

“I need to brush my—”

John whirls to face him. “Stay the fuck here, Nev.” Though John’s voice isn’t any different, perhaps his expression is, for Neville’s eyes widen. Without another word, he sits on the steps.

In the distance are more fireworks and more screams. Then, suddenly, a gonging like God’s own carriage clock. Big Ben, sounding the strokes of midnight.

12

John reaches into his coat and takes out his gun. Neville gasps behind him, but John ignores it.

11

He scans the vestibule quickly. No strange shadows, no stifled sound of breathing. All clear. 

10

He puts his foot on the bottom step. It creaks, but that’s drowned by the noise of the telly.

9

Halfway up. The noise of the telly grows louder. He can hear a voice now. Maybe two voices.

8

Definitely two voices. A man’s, deep and slow. And—a woman’s? John stops, frowning.

7

He continues. Moriarty has used female minions before (see: Irene). John won’t be distracted.

6

If the girl has her tits out, he won’t be. Moriarty’s taste in women is questionable, anyway. 

5

Top of the stairs. John inches forward, past the black cabinet, past the door into the kitchen.

4

Bright light floods through the half-open lounge door. It looks like every lamp in the room is on. 

3

What new game is this? Doesn’t matter: John has his own. Moriarty is about to play it, oh yes. 

2

John stares into the light, eyes wide. This final second seems to go on and on, not a moment of true consciousness perhaps, but one of acute awareness. He can feel it leaving, the old year. The last moments of the life he’s lived, with all its anger, grief, and desire. 

_This is the end,_ he thinks. _Thank God._

1 

**HAPPY NEW YEAR!**

Explosions and lights. Screams and more screams. John bursts into the lounge, flinging the door wide. He raises his gun, aiming it right at the figure in black standing in the middle of the room. A split-second before he pulls the trigger, John hears the man’s voice, deep and beautiful. 

“John, for God’s sake! It’s me!”

He sees a face. He sees grey eyes. He sees long hands reaching out to him.

John drops the gun. He stands, frozen, in the glaring yellow light of the lounge. He stares at that face. One word reverberates through his mind, louder than the chimes of Big Ben.

 _You you you you you_

“You look terrible,” Sherlock says, squinting at him. “Down a stone at least, and you’ve been drinking—whiskey? No.” His nostrils quiver. “Jägermeister. I know it’s a matter of Teutonic pride, but really. Why not drink cough syrup and be done with it?”

One corner of Sherlock’s mouth turns up. He crosses the lounge, coming close enough to touch. He _is_ going to touch John. Living flesh grasping living flesh.

John falls to his knees and vomits.

* * *

Tits are in John’s face. Lovely tits, big and round, peeping out of a low-cut cherry red jumper. Also, piles of blonde hair that smells like almonds. Blue eyes, rounder than the bosoms, assess John as she wipes his mouth and chin.

She wiped up the vomit puddle first. Then she picked up his gun: “Browning nine millimeter semiautomatic. Hmm.” She flicked the safety and tucked it into the back of her tight jeans. “You get this back when you are not drunk. This is how my cousin Sava lose his tentacles.”

“Testicles,” Sherlock put in.

“Yes. Those. His wife leave him. Very sad,” she said, as she began cleaning the puke off of John with business-like efficiency. Clearly, this is a woman with her priorities firmly in hand. 

“Who are you?” John says, once his lips are no longer blocked by cotton cloth.

“Danica Cvetković. You are John Watson. I picture you taller. You are like my brother Vlad. Short but strong, yes? Like little cow.”

“You mean bull, Dani,” Sherlock says. “Cows are female.”

“Cow, bull. It is all meat.” Danica jumps up. She takes the bucket and soiled rags to the kitchen.

John blinks after her. Then, slowly, he turns his gaze to Sherlock. ( _Sherlock! Here. Not dead. Right here, leaning on the mantelpiece._ )

“Who is she?” John repeats.

“Our new live-in housekeeper,” Sherlock says. “Among other things. Don’t worry, she comes highly recommended.” His smile fades a bit. “Suffice to say, her qualifications are—unique.”

Qualifications, right. John has already seen two of Danica’s right up close. Not unique perhaps, but certainly ample. Danica wouldn’t be the first woman to score an advantage with Sherlock by using her breasts. Jilly the vampire queen, for one. And Irene. Mustn’t ever forget _her._

“I apologize,” Sherlock says more formally. “If I’d known you would be so affected, I would have phoned first. I thought about it this afternoon.”

John tries to picture being interrupted mid-wank by the dead object of his desire, but imagination fails him utterly.

“It’s fine,” he says, getting to his feet. “You surprised me, that’s all.”

Sherlock approaches him again, more slowly this time. His eyes are fixed on John’s face. “A welcome surprise, I hope.”

John has no idea how to answer. All the ways that he has pictured Sherlock in the last six months, he never pictured a moment like this. So he says nothing, avoiding Sherlock’s gaze. 

He wishes Sherlock had left the telly on. The silence stretches out, becoming awkward, then awful. Before it can become downright morbid, Danica bounces back into the lounge. In one hand she holds a small bowl. On her hip is something much more surprising. A baby, maybe eight or nine months old, with large pale eyes and a head full of dark curls.

“Nero is hungry!” she says excitedly. 

To John’s surprise, Sherlock seems equally pleased. “That’s good,” he says. “His appetite has been off since—” he stops. “Very good, Danica.”

“French baby food,” she says. “Your brother’s girl find. Vegetables Provençal, very nice.” She takes her baby back into the kitchen and sets him in the high chair (when did that get there?)

“She has a baby?” John says. “Here. At Baker Street.” He rubs his chin. “Has she seen the preserved eyeballs in the pantry yet?” 

“We’ve just arrived.” Seeing John’s skeptical look: “The situation is complicated. You see—that is to say—” Sherlock stops.

John stares at him, waiting. But there is another awkward silence, one broken only by Danica cooing at her son in the kitchen. Just as awkward is becoming awful again, Sherlock clears his throat and says,

“John, I have to tell you—” 

“JESUS FUCKING CHRIST ON A CRUTCH!”

Both of their heads whip around to the door of the lounge. Neville is standing there, weaving a little but more or less upright. His eyes are huger than usual, staring at Sherlock.

“IT’S YOU. IT’S REALLY YOU. FUCKING HELL.”

“Shh!” Danica calls from the kitchen. 

Neville takes a few steps into the lounge. He runs hands through his hair until it sticks out like there’s electricity running through it. “Have I gone mental, John?” he says in a much quieter voice. “Is this some kind of Jäger-induced hallucination? Or is Sherlock bloody Holmes, that famous corpse, standing in your lounge?”

“What's the matter with you?” Sherlock snaps. 

“HOLY FUCKING FUCK, HE TALKS!”

 _“Shhhh!”_ Danica calls again. 

“It’s him, Nev,” John says, as Neville takes more wavering steps and stops beside him.

“Neville St. Clair.” Sherlock looks at him narrowly. “Here. In this house.”

“That’s right,” Neville says, sticking his chin out. “What are you staring at me for? You’re the zombie.” 

“Neville—” John starts, but Neville keeps going like John hasn’t spoken.

“Oh my God,” he says. “You faked your death. That’s what you did. You, Sherlock Holmes, faked the fucking fall. Holy shit, is this a movie? Are there hidden cameras in the ceiling?”

 _“Neville,”_ John says, putting a hand on his shoulder, but Neville shakes him off.

“HE FAKED HIS DEATH, JOHN. WHO THE FUCK DOES THAT?”

Danica comes storming into the lounge, Nero bouncing on her hip. “Shut up! You upset Baby!”

Neville spins around, his arms flailing like a manic muppet’s. His eyes bounce to baby Nero, then to Danica. Then back to the baby, where they stay. He runs his hands down his face. 

“Sherlock has a baby. A _baby._ What the hell has he been doing?”

“That’s not his baby,” John says patiently. “Nero belongs to Danica.”

“Maybe Nero does. But he’s also Sherlock’s. Christ, _look at him._ He’s a Mini Me with mashed potatoes on his face.”

“Vegetables Provençal,” Danica says. “Mycroft’s girl find. Nice lady, Nero like her very—”

“Six months,” Neville says, putting a hand to his stomach. “All our work, all the shit we took from the press, and Sherlock was alive the whole time. Him and his Mini Me. Oh, I feel sick.”

“No more puke!” Danica says. “Toilet is there!” 

With her free hand, she seizes Neville by the shirt, dragging him through the kitchen and down the hall. She shoves him into Sherlock’s bathroom. Then her nose wrinkles, and she sniffs Nero. 

“Phew! This is bad one. Come, _dragi,_ I clean you while the pretty man pukes.” She takes Nero into the bath. The muffled sound of Neville’s protests comes from within, but Danica, firm in her priorities, shuts the door.

John sinks down into the Le Corbusier chair. Or he tries to, but before his ass can touch leather there is a ferocious screeching sound. He jerks up and spins around, only to lay eyes on one of the largest cats he has ever seen, a grey-and-white behemoth with bright green eyes, glaring at him from the squishy depths of the chair.

“That’s Faust,” Sherlock says, a bit weakly. “He lives here now.”

“Right,” John says, still caught by that venomous green gaze. “I’m—right.”

He turns on one heel and heads for the vestibule.

“John, wait—”

But he keeps heading downstairs as quickly as he can. He doesn’t want to leave more puke on the floor. Danica has enough on her hands, between Neville, Faust, and, oh yes, _Nero._ That grey-eyed, black-haired, beautiful baby.

John makes it through the front door. He sits on the bottom step, taking deep breaths until the roiling in his gut backs off. Then he stands, clutching onto one of the finials of the iron fence.

He feels a presence behind him. He doesn’t turn around.

“Are you all right?” Sherlock says.

“Fine,” John says. “Happy New Year.”

“I know this is a shock—”

“No.” John spins around. “You jumping off the roof of St. Barts? That was a shock. This? I don’t know what the fuck this is.”

Sherlock is silent. John stares at him. _Sherlock._ He can’t really take him in. It would be easier if the man had changed, the way everyone says John has changed. Gotten thinner, greyer, older, something. But Sherlock is just the same. Tall and beautiful, pale and inscrutable, clad in dark, expensive clothes. Like the fall never happened. Like nothing in the last six months was real.

For a split-second, John clings to the idea. Perhaps it was a dream. Which means that John is mad, of course. Probably spent the whole time in a padded cell somewhere, hooked up to a Thorazine drip. Which would be fine, by the way. Better than the alternative.

Better than this. For John isn’t mad, this is real. Neville, with his talent for articulation, had it exactly right. Sherlock faked the whole thing. Which means John’s very real sufferings since June, they were for nothing. Nothing at all.

“Why?” John whispers. “For God’s sake, Sherlock.”

 _“Moriarty,”_ Sherlock says, spitting the name. “Remember the assassins? They were here for you, and Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson. If I hadn’t jumped, they would have killed all of you. Do you really think that I would just— _I had good reason,_ John. Whatever Neville St. Clair thinks.”

John takes a moment to digest this. The explanation actually does help. He takes a deep breath. “Where were you?”

“A few places. But Montenegro, mostly.”

That explains the girl’s odd Slavic accent. “With Danica?”

“Well, Danica was there. But I wasn’t _with_ her. She’s a housekeeper and a nanny.”

“So Nero isn’t hers. Whose is he?”

“Mine,” Sherlock says, meeting John’s gaze. “But you knew that.” 

John clutches the finial tighter, feeling the rough iron biting his palm. “Who is Nero’s mother?”

“I don’t think that’s really—”

“Oh yes, it is. Who is she?”

“She’s dead.” Sherlock’s voice doesn’t change, but John hears it anyway. Real pain, still raw.

John steps down hard on his reaction to this. He won’t empathize. Not yet. “Who was she?”

He watches Sherlock work it out. Perhaps the Great Detective is not as inscrutable as he used to be, or perhaps John just knows him very, very well. He sees Sherlock consider half-a-dozen fast lies. He sees him discard them just as quickly. 

Finally, Sherlock says it. The truth, though it should be impossible. But John knows that it _is_ the truth, as soon as the name leaves Sherlock’s lips. His last, most devastating revelation.

“Irene Adler.”

John digs his nails into his palms. He is holding onto himself very tightly, trying not to puke again, or punch out Sherlock, or do something else that’s embarrassing and totally pointless. Nothing can change the past six months. Sherlock is alive, and he has a baby with Irene Adler. 

_Of course he does,_ John thinks wildly. _They have so much in common._

He laughs a little. The sound is horrible, like the cackling of a bitter old man. “Are you sure she’s dead? Maybe she’s faking again. That would be ironic, wouldn’t it?”

“She’s dead,” Sherlock says grimly. 

“Sorry about that. I know girls like her don’t come along every day. Well, cheer up, mate: Maybe she has a sister.”

Sherlock stiffens. “There is no need to be—” he stops, taking a breath. “You’re upset, and you’ve been drinking.” He says this like he’s reminding himself. “Come inside. Danica will make coffee, and we’ll talk.” He takes John by the wrist.

John freezes at the contact. Of course, he and Sherlock have touched before. They have even held hands, though they were handcuffed together at the time. But _this._ Standing on the front steps of 221-B, Sherlock in the doorway staring intensely, taking John in his warm, firm grip. Sherlock, half-begging John to come inside, to see all of their amazing possibilities. 

How many times has John seen this moment in the past six months? But now it’s not a fantasy, it’s real. It’s like a miracle. But miracles aren’t supposed to hurt this much, are they? 

He rips his hand from Sherlock’s. John turns around, eyes desperately searching for—yes. There’s what he wants. 

He waves at the slowing cab, then starts walking towards it very quickly.

“John!” 

He keeps moving. Soon he is running, almost diving into the back of the cab. He blinks when he sees that it’s the same driver as before. What kind of coincidence is that on a night like this? It must be fate.

“Drive,” John tells him. “Go anywhere, I don’t care.”

Though it’s not been more than an hour, the cabbie doesn’t seem to recognize him. He is totally unastonished by John’s strange directions. He drives, still babbling into his Bluetooth in Farsi. 

John sits back, leaning against seats that reek of sweat and plastic. He does not look back at 221 Baker Street. Instead he closes his eyes, letting the cabbie’s torrent of conversation wash over him. The man is still going on about Southampton and Arsenal.

“Gangnam Style” is on the radio, not Adele. John would have never thought that this could be a blessing. But right now, in the first minutes of his brand new life, it is. 

****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's time for more director's commentary! To enjoy all kinds of behind-the-scenes tidbits on Chapters 30-32, go to my Dreamwidth or Livejournal blogs.
> 
>  
> 
> [Author Notes at Dreamwidth](http://chase820.dreamwidth.org/317357.html)
> 
>  
> 
> [Author Notes at LiveJournal](http://chase820.livejournal.com/327156.html)
> 
>  
> 
> Links to other notes can be found at the end of chapters 5, 12, 20, 23, 28, 29, 38, 42, and 47.


	33. Chapter 33

** Sherlock, 27 December 2012-1 January 2013 **

When John starts vomiting, Sherlock realizes he’s handled things badly.

He hadn’t intended for things to go that way at all. Sherlock’s original plan was to return to Baker Street on New Year’s Day. It seemed fitting, new beginnings and so forth. He planned to come alone, without baby, cat, or maid. He would talk to John calmly, and at length. He would make him understand, and then John would forgive him. 

As to the form this forgiveness would take, Sherlock envisioned several scenarios. They ran the gamut from a brotherly embrace to a frantic shag on the Persian rug. Of course, for that last one to work John would have to be gay, or at least gay for Sherlock. While Sherlock has never seen evidence of this, if there were ever a time for feelings to be revealed, New Year’s would be it. 

_I’m not dead, John. I’m alive, and I’ve come back to you, and oh my how did my hand get there?_

Only after obtaining forgiveness would Sherlock tell John of the many changes that had taken place since June. Though here, it must be admitted, the picture always became fuzzy. It was difficult to imagine John’s expression when confronted by Nero and Faust. (Danica—young, female, and stacked—was never a concern.) John’s feelings about children and cats are well-documented, but Sherlock counted on John being so happy to see him that he would accept the others, too. It was easier to imagine this in what Sherlock has dubbed the Persian Shag Scenario. The endorphin rush from several orgasms was sure to smooth over any unpleasantness. 

Deep down, Sherlock never really believed in the Persian Shag Scenario. A hug was the best he could hope for. But that John would forgive if approached properly, Sherlock never doubted.

The first time he saw John, Sherlock was shocked by how much thinner and older he looked. This was on December 27th, a bitterly cold day, just at dusk. John was coming out the front door of 221-B. His expression, what could be seen of it through the tinted windows of an unmarked surveillance car, was calm. But Sherlock could see something else beneath the calm, a resigned anguish that was heartbreaking. John _needed_ a hug, no doubt about that. Sherlock almost gave it to him. He almost got out of the car—sod all his careful preparations. 

Maybe he would have, if a cab hadn’t stopped in front of Baker Street at that exact moment. A man emerged. Quite a young man, muffled up in a ridiculous scarf, striped red and white like a barber’s pole. He was small, slender, quick in his movements, with a mop of tousled dark hair. He was also strikingly good-looking, with large blue eyes, creamy white skin, and full red lips. They broke into a smile at the sight of John. Amazingly, John responded, his private torment eclipsed by a smile of his own. It brightened as the young man hugged him.

“Neville St. Clair,” Mycroft says, though Sherlock didn’t ask. His brother insisted on coming along on Sherlock’s surveillance op. Maybe he didn’t trust him with such an expensive vehicle. Or maybe, as Sherlock has often suspected, his brother is a bloody sadist.

“St. Clair is a journalist. He’s been helping John with—”

“I know who he is,” Sherlock says. 

“Really? You looked surprised.”

“He’s younger than I thought.”

“Thirty-two, last November 23,” Mycroft says. “Things aren’t always as they appear.”

Sherlock is still looking out the window at John and Neville. They’re crossing the street together, heading towards The Volunteer, John’s favorite local pub. “They appear close.”

He can feel Mycroft’s gaze on him, so he straightens and says, “Satisfactory. I was concerned John would isolate himself too much. It’s good that he’s found a friend.” 

“He seldom lacks for companionship,” Mycroft says. “You know that.” 

John and Neville have arrived at the pub. John is holding the door open so that his friend can go in first, as solicitous as a man on a date. Of course it’s not a date, even if Neville is prettier than most of John’s girlfriends.

“We have a camera inside the pub,” Mycroft says. “It’s been there for ages—the previous owner had a bartender with some rather distressing contacts in Syria. After the local police arrested him on a drugs charge, we never bothered to remove it. Would you like to see?” He taps his iPad. Sherlock gets a glimpse of a black-and-white image, but turns his head away.

“I have to go home. Danica is going out, and Faust is not exactly an ideal babysitter.”

“I have a file on Neville St. Clair,” Mycroft persists. “Do you want to see that?”

“Why would I care about him?”

 _“Know thine enemy.”_ Mycroft looks amused, but when Sherlock doesn’t smile, he shrugs. “I don’t think St. Clair is a problem. He’s astonishingly promiscuous, and John Watson doesn’t like to share.”

“John isn’t gay,” Sherlock says. “As to his attitude towards his female partners, I wouldn’t know. I’ve never paid attention.” 

Mycroft looks thoughtful, tapping a finger on the steering wheel. “John’s file is quite interesting. I’m surprised you’ve never asked to see it.”

“I won’t ask.” When Mycroft raises an eyebrow: “I owe you enough favors at present. Also, I don’t need your file. I know everything about John that is worth knowing. He told me himself.”

“As you please.” 

Mycroft’s voice is carefully neutral, but it always is. He could be concealing a deep, dark secret about John Watson. More likely, he’s screwing with Sherlock’s head. _Sadist._

“Drive the bloody car,” Sherlock says, and puts his earbuds in. 

Schubert, Piano Trio in E Flat, Op. 100: a schizophrenically lovely piece, cheerful and menacing at the same time. Kubrick used it in _Barry Lyndon_ —how many times did Ford make him watch that movie when Sherlock was living in LA? Then Ford used it himself in _The Secret History,_ as the soundtrack for the sequence leading up to the murder. It was chilling, the bright piano and somber cello, as those shy, geeky kids plotted their friend’s doom. Though it’s not so surprising, perhaps. People will go to great lengths to protect their secrets. In the end, do we really know what anyone is capable of?

Sherlock almost asked then. He would have asked for the file, if Mycroft hadn’t looked so smug. He always looks smug, but Sherlock wasn’t in the mood to endure more teasing and triumphing. He put his head against the window glass and turned up iTunes.

Sherlock didn’t ask, and he didn’t consider approaching John again, though he watched him at least once a day for the next four days. If it hadn’t been for that domestic unpleasantness at Chapel Street, Sherlock would have waited until New Year’s Day. He would have done things properly, and they wouldn’t have gone so wrong. He would have approached John quietly, gently, and John wouldn’t have run away. No shagging on the rug, perhaps, but no vomit either.

But that’s not what happened. 

After John disappeared on New Year’s Eve, Sherlock waited all night for him to return. Danica, who knows something about homicidal impulses, took Neville St. Clair away before Sherlock did something regrettable. ( _He_ wouldn’t have regretted it, but no point giving John more reason to be mad at him.) Alone, Sherlock paced, he played the violin, he stared into the fire, but he could never disappear into his memory palace. He always ended up in John’s wing, still pacing. 

At 8 AM, when the sun was just breaking over the grey rooftops of London, John returned. 

Sherlock was at the window playing Haydn when he saw the red Range Rover coming down the street. At first he didn’t pay it much attention, not until it parked in a space a few doors down. When he saw two small figures emerge, one greying and one aggressively blonde, he put the violin down and turned to the lounge door, his heart thudding.

Harry was the first one through. Sherlock barely had time to note that she’d skipped breakfast and recently acquired a bullpup before she dashed across the room and punched him with all of her might. 

“Harry! Jesus!” But John’s intervention comes too late. Sherlock is half-kneeling, shaking the stars out of his eyes. A little dazed, he looks up into a white, furious face.

“Say one goddamn word to me,” she hisses. “Just one, and you won’t have to fake anything, Sherlock. I’ll fucking kill you myself.” 

John has gotten his hand on his sister’s shoulder. “Would you stop it?” he says to her. “We’ve already talked about this.”

“No, you talked,” Harry says, shaking him off. “I was just trying to figure out which institution I was going to have you committed to. But now I see that you’re not crazy. _He’s_ fucking crazy. Why the hell did we even come back here?”

“I told you not to come. I said I’d take the tube.”

“Oh no. I had to see for myself. I’m glad I missed New Year’s brunch for this. I’d never have believed it. That he’d— _you fucking piece of shit!”_ She looks like she’s going right for Sherlock again, but before he can move John gets between them. He stands with his back to Sherlock, but from the set of his shoulders it’s clear that he’s glaring.

“Harriet. Go.” 

“But—”

 _“Go._ I’m not joking.”

She deflates visibly. “You’re staying with him? How can you—

“I’m staying in my house. You’re going back to yours. Come back when you’ve calmed down.”

She sticks out her stubborn little chin. “Not while he’s here. _I’m_ not joking, John. Never again.”

“That’s your decision to make, I guess. I hope you’ll—” but Harry is already leaving.

It’s not as clean an exit as she’d like. Danica is standing in the vestibule, holding Nero. She and Harry take each other’s measure for a moment. 

“You’re Danica,” Harry says. 

Danica nods.

“I suppose this is Nero?” Harry looks at the baby, who smiles at her. His front teeth are just coming in, giving him a fetching gap-toothed grin. Her pale, frozen face softens one degree.

“Cute kid,” she says. “Too bad his father’s a psychopath.”

Before Danica can do more than blink at this, Harry has brushed past her and run down the stairs. Soon the front door slams.

John sighs. “Just once, I’d like her to leave this house _not_ pissed off.”

“Who is she?” Danica says, entering the lounge. 

“My sister.”

“She is pretty,” Danica says. “She must grow more hair, though. She looks like lesbian.”

“She _is_ lesbian.”

“Ah,” Danica says. “That is why she is so angry.” Taking Nero towards the kitchen, she glances at Sherlock and stops, brow wrinkling. “Who hit you?”

“The angry lesbian,” Sherlock says, getting to his feet. 

“You need ice,” John says, and goes into the kitchen to fetch it. He opens the fridge and starts rooting around. Sherlock follows the trend, crossing the lounge and standing uncertainly in the kitchen archway.

“I’m sorry,” John says, as he puts ice cubes in a plastic bag. “Harry’s always had a temper, but I haven’t seen her hit anyone since she gave me a black eye when I was 17.” He pauses, thinking. “I suppose I deserved it. I told her best friend that Harry fancied her. Jen freaked out and never spoke to her again.”

“I give my brother black eye once,” Danica says, as she puts a bottle for Nero in the microwave. “He deserved it. He fucked my girlfriend.”

John blinks at this. “What happened to the girlfriend?”

“I put _ricinus_ in her coffee. She was go-go dancer. She shit herself onstage. We break up then.” Danica shrugs. 

“Ricin? Like the poison?” John is still blinking at her.

 _“Ricinus,”_ Sherlock corrects. “It’s Serbian for castor oil.”

 _“Montenegrin,”_ Danica says, giving him a glare. “How many times I tell you?”

“I suppose some lesbians are angry,” John mutters.

“I am not lesbian,” Danica says. “I have boyfriend—Goran. He is stupid but very handsome.” She considers. “He does not know I am in London and never coming back. I must call him.”

“Why don’t you do that now, Dani?” Sherlock says. “You can use the phone in my room.”

“Nero is hungry,” she says, as the microwave beeps.

“Take the bottle and feed him there. But don’t let him play with Faust. It always ends in tears.”

“I know,” Danica says peevishly. “That creature is demon.” She picks up Nero from his high chair. “Come, _dragi._ We go back to my house. No demons there.” She gets the bottle in one hand and Nero on one hip and, scooting around Sherlock, opens the kitchen door to the stairs. 

“Where did you find her?” John is watching her round, retreating posterior with some attention.

“I didn’t. Irene did.” 

Sherlock regrets the admission when he sees him flinch. “Right,” John says. “Of course.” 

“Can I have that?” Sherlock says, by way of distraction.

“What?” 

“The ice, please. Your sister has an impressive right cross.”

John blinks down at his hand as if he forgot he is holding anything. He offers the slightly dripping bag to Sherlock.

“We should talk,” Sherlock says, as he soothes his stinging cheek. “If you’re not too tired.”

“I took a nap at Harry’s,” John says. “Once I mostly convinced her that I wasn’t bonkers, she let me lie down in her guest room.”

“Why did you go there?”

John sits down at the small granite table, looking at his hands. “I don’t know. In retrospect, it was a bad decision. One of many last night. Happy fucking New Year’s.”

“While we’re on the subject, Neville St. Clair left about an hour ago.”

“Oh. How is he?”

“Wobbly. But drinking half a bottle of cheap German liqueur will do that.” 

John nods, saying nothing. The silence stretches out between them. John has been surprisingly friendly up to now, but he’s not met Sherlock’s gaze since he came in with Harry.

Sherlock sighs. “John. I should—”

“No. You shouldn’t. You explained everything last night. What else is there to say?”

“I have to apologize for surprising you like that. Mycroft and I had a disagreement. I left his home unexpectedly. In retrospect, that was a bad decision on my part.”

“Hard to imagine Mycroft having a home. I always see him existing underground, like Batman.”

Chapel Street couldn’t be further from the Batcave, though they do have a few similarities. Loyal servants, an astonishing amount of proprietary technology, and savage, biting creatures lurking in the shadows. Despite everything, it’s a relief to be gone from there.

John sighs tiredly, running hands through his hair. “I should apologize. I acted like a right asshole last night. The Jäger is my only excuse. And you did surprise the hell out of me.” 

He must see Sherlock opening his mouth to speak, because he rushes on. “It’s okay. I understand why you did it. I should thank you, really. You saved my life.” 

John doesn’t sound grateful. His voice is as colorless as his face. 

Sherlock sits down in the chair next to him. John doesn’t actually move away from Sherlock’s presence. But he still won’t look at him.

“I’ll talk to Harry when she calms down,” he says. “You’ll get your money as soon as possible.”

“What?” Sherlock stares at him. “I don’t care about that.”

“You have to care. You have a baby to support.”

“Yes, but—” Sherlock peers at him a moment. “Do you mind? About the baby?”

“How could I mind about the baby? Nero hasn’t done anything wrong.”

“But I have. That’s why you won’t look at me. You’re angry about Irene.”

“Of course I’m not angry.” John pauses. “Mumbai, right? That’s when it happened.”

“Yes. Irene had gotten herself into some trouble. It was a rescue mission. But after—” Sherlock stops, not sure how many details he can give. How much John can stand.

“After you saved her life, she rewarded you with the ultimate prize. How romantic.” 

Sherlock looks at John closely. His words could be read as sarcastic, even angry, but they were given in that same colorless tone. His face is totally empty. Impossible to see anything about how John is feeling; Sherlock’s perceptions haven’t been this blank since Irene paraded herself naked in front of him. It’s as if she’s still here, imposing herself between them. 

“John, I’m—”

“Sherlock, stop.” Now John is looking at him. His dark blue eyes are as calm as the deep ocean. There could be anything under that surface. Anything at all.

“Let’s be clear,” he says. “I’m not angry. You have a right to a personal life. What happened between you and Irene, it’s none of my business. I’m sorry for acting as if it were; I never did like her very much. But the lady is dead, so I suppose there’s no point running her down now. Nero is lovely, you should be very proud.”

“If it’s not a problem,” Sherlock says, “why did you get so angry last night?”

“I wasn’t angry, not really. You did surprise me. I _was_ drunk.”

 _“In vino veritas,”_ Sherlock says softly.

“You surprised me,” John repeats. “But I don’t hold it against you.” He gets up from the table. “If you don’t mind, I’m knackered. I only got a couple of hours at Harry’s. Think I’ll have a nice lie-in this morning. Good way to start the year off, don’t you think?”

Sherlock watches him go with a feeling akin to panic. John’s words are all right, but the way he’s saying them—that emptiness in his voice and in his face. This isn’t how it was supposed to happen. Not at all. 

Sherlock jumps up. “Wait.” He grabs John’s arm. He feels him stiffen at the contact. It’s identical to the reaction that John had last night on the steps of 221-B. As if Sherlock’s touch were something unbearable. The panic inside grows worse, and Sherlock steps down hard on it. 

“We’re not finished,” he says, trying for calm. “I have to tell you—Moriarty is alive.”

John’s expression—no expression—doesn’t change. “Of course. What did you think?”

“I thought he was dead. I didn’t know the truth until Mycroft told me last week. I saw him blow the back of his head off with a pistol. It was a very convincing suicide.”

Something stirs in those blue eyes a moment, before quickly submerging. “So was yours.”

“It must remain a secret,” Sherlock says, rather desperately. “You can’t post about Moriarty in the blog. You can’t tell Neville St. Clair.”

“Neville knows. He’s not an idiot. But he won’t say anything, and neither will I. All right?” 

John tries to go, but Sherlock holds on to that unyielding arm. John stills himself with a sigh.

“John—” Sherlock stops. There are so many things he wants to say to him, but they’re getting drowned in the throbbing grey chaos swirling in his brain. All the ways he imagined New Year’s Day, he never thought it would be like this. John staring at him, as coolly polite as a stranger.

The silence is so awful. Perhaps John can’t stand it either, for he finally speaks again.

“It’s okay,” he says. “We’re okay.”

“I don’t know what we are,” Sherlock says, clutching on. “This isn’t—”

“We’re friends,” John says. “Like always.” He gives a smile that gets nowhere near his eyes. “Nothing has changed with us, Sherlock. It never will.” John pulls away and heads upstairs. 

All things considered, Harry’s reaction was easier to take.


	34. Chapter 34

**Sherlock, 5 January 2013**

Things have not improved in the five days since New Year’s. John isn’t home much. Sherlock hasn’t been surveilling him anymore, but he can tell by the various spatters of mud on his shoes that John is taking long walks around London, in no consistent direction. When he is home, John keeps to his room. The few times he has ventured into the lounge, his words are polite but few. When it comes to breaking this terrible silence, Sherlock is at a loss. 

Mycroft’s summons this morning was almost welcome. Nineteen Chapel Street is never the most cheerful of domiciles, but just now it’s better than Sherlock’s. Though the reason for the invite is terribly tedious. Who knew that rising from the dead involved so much paperwork?

“Where’s your baptismal certificate?” Mycroft asks over the piles of papers on his desk. 

Reluctantly, Sherlock rifles through the many forms stuffed at random into his messenger bag. He sees transcripts from Eton, vaccination records dating from 1981, and what appears to be a term paper written his freshman year at university. What the blazes ever made him think that Southampton was the author of Shakespeare’s plays? The idea is absurd.

“Don’t you have it?” he says, after a minute more of fruitless searching.

“If I did, why would I ask for it?” 

“I thought you kept the family records here.”

“I gave you all of yours when you moved to Montague Street.”

“You gave me these,” Sherlock says, showing him the open bag. “Just these.”

Mycroft’s fingers tighten on his Montblanc pen. “The baptismal certificate was in the box I sent. What did you do with it?”

“I traded it for crack. My dealer was accommodating that way.”

Mycroft rises from his chair. “I’m getting a drink of water. While I’m gone, try to make some sort of effort.” He looks down his nose at Sherlock. “Keep in mind, I’m giving up my Saturday for your benefit. I know better than to expect gratitude, but basic civility would be appreciated.” 

He stalks out. Sherlock slumps in his chair. Part of the problem, besides the normal psychosis mountains of paperwork can create, is that they’re working in this damn office. Just crossing the threshold gives Sherlock the shivers. Though it’s his brother behind the big rosewood desk now, not his father, the ghost of Siger lingers like the stale stench of the million cigarettes he smoked in here. Mycroft has had the room repainted and the carpets cleaned many times, but the sickly aroma remains. Siger is not easily exorcised.

They should have set up in the lounge outside, but Julia and Danica are there with Nero. Danica has a fancy to create a proper nursery for the boy, and Julia, always enthusiastic when it comes to anything related to décor, has offered to help. The office door is open a crack, and Sherlock can see and hear them, chattering away like old friends. Decorating magazines and books of fabric samples are piled high around them; they are as surrounded as Sherlock and Mycroft but more content. Nero is having a fine time, crawling about and batting at the big books. He squeals in protest when Danica snatches a square of Liberty’s best upholstery out of his mouth.

There is some difference of opinion over where the nursery will go. Sherlock’s first idea was 221-C, right across the hall from 221-A, formerly the abode of Mrs. Hudson and now Danica’s flat. But Danica is concerned about the damp, and wants to put the baby in the unused room on the third floor, with a monitor in case Nero needs her at night. Normally Sherlock wouldn’t care either way, but the room is on the same floor as John’s bedroom and bath. 

John has been as polite about Nero as everything else. He won’t touch the baby, but the looks he gives him are kindly enough. Looks are one thing, though, and Irene Adler’s offspring next door is something different. It’s just the sort of invasion that could drive John away permanently. But 221-C _is_ too damp. It’s an awful quandary.

Sherlock jumps as he feels a cold, wet nose upon his palm. He looks down into round gold eyes. “Hello, Hal,” he says. He scratches him behind the ears and is rewarded with a purr.

Henry—usually shortened to Hal—is one of Mycroft’s cats. Like the Tudor king for which he was named, he’s large, ginger, and obsessed with the pleasures of the table. Unlike Henry the Eighth, he doesn’t have a mean bone in his pudgy body. If he were the only cat that Mycroft owned, Sherlock would never have had to leave Chapel Street before the appointed time. 

Sherlock looks over at the top of the piano. Curled up there is a ball of silky fluff, wonderfully colored with patches of white, brown, black, and red. If the cat were to raise her head from her tail, you would see a tiny, pointed face, mostly white but with streaks of black over the muzzle. Also, a small pink nose and round gold eyes. The eyes are the one similarity to her brother. Like the Tudor queen for which she was named, Elizabeth—often called Bess—is cold, cunning and vain. She’s also possessed of a ferocious temper. She accepts strangers with very bad grace. 

The introduction of Faust—large, male, and dominant in his own right—was an insult not to be borne. She made her feelings known the night they returned from Montenegro, flinging herself at his carrier and screaming like a banshee. When she was not allowed to execute the invader, she incessantly paced the hall outside the third-floor bedrooms, threatening and complaining. That Faust was carefully kept inside Sherlock’s room made no difference whatsoever.

Matters came to a head on the afternoon of New Year’s Eve. Faust got out of the room. How is not clear—Sherlock searched for clues, but feline slyness is beyond mere human perception. Possibly, he used his opposable thumbs and just opened the door. 

In any event he did get out, and Bess was waiting for him. It’s a tribute to Faust that he didn’t squash her on the spot, given the fact that he outweighs her by a stone. But it was still a nasty altercation, and by the time Sherlock and Mycroft made it up the stairs, Bess was crouched in a corner, her left ear torn and bleeding. Mycroft, white as a sheet, snatched her up and rushed her to an emergency veterinary clinic. Three hours and several sutures later, they returned.

Mycroft did not blame Faust. But he did blame Sherlock, at length and at an elevated volume. Sherlock, exhausted after five nights of broken sleep (Bess’s wailing is _very_ loud), could not find it within himself to grovel. The end result was a hasty departure to Baker Street at around ten o’clock that evening, leading to all of the unpleasantness that followed.

Bess raises her chin from her tail, opening her eyes. She looks at her brother, dismissing him with a glance. Then she looks at Sherlock. Her pupils dilate with wrath. 

_Be gone. We do not want you here._

“I’m quite aware of that,” Sherlock says. “This wasn’t my idea.”

 _If the Beast is with you, tell him we have not forgotten the outrage committed against our person._

“He’s not coming back,” Sherlock says. “You have my word.”

 _Your word. We would as soon trust a dog._ Bess sits up, her fluffy tail swishing back and forth.

Henry, seeing his sister’s displeasure, gives a nervous squeak totally out of proportion to his size. Bess turns her furious gaze on him. _Silence, fool. When we want your advice, we will ask for it._

Angry amber eyes return to Sherlock. _There will be a reckoning. Tell the Beast that, when next you see him. We will have satisfaction._

Sherlock looks pointedly at her stitches. “Perhaps you should let your ear heal first.”

 _Impudence! When the Beast is dead, you, his servant, will share his fate._

Sherlock is about to say something to the effect that if Her Highness wants him dead, she’ll have to join the bloody queue, when Mycroft comes back in. He has a glass of water in one hand and a piece of paper in the other. He looks at Sherlock, then at Bess.

“What are you doing?” he says. “Bess looks upset.”

“I’m not the one making threats,” Sherlock mutters.

“What?”

“Nothing. I’ve done nothing. Your cat is just angry, as always. Have you considered therapy?”

“Nonsense.” Mycroft sets his water glass on the desk. He scratches Bess under the chin and she closes her eyes in ecstasy. “Bess isn’t angry. She’s perfect. Aren’t you, my lamb?” his usually icy voice has taken on the sing-song note of a mother speaking to a favorite child. 

Bess purrs in agreement. Sherlock rolls his eyes. Really, it’s embarrassing, watching Mycroft make such a fool of himself. _He_ has a cat too, but he regards him in a rational manner. Faust is a brilliant and beautiful creature, perhaps the most extraordinary feline who ever lived, but that’s evident to anyone with eyes. He’s certainly not a beast, even if he did almost bite Bess’s ear off. The spoiled little cow had it coming.

Bess gives a luxurious stretch and jumps off the piano. She stalks to the open door of the office, turning her head to regard her brother. _Come, fool. We grow famished. You may eat our scraps, if you do not displease us further._ Tail held proudly up, she heads in the direction of the kitchen stairs, her brother trailing behind.

Mycroft is looking fondly after her when Sherlock says, “What’s that in your hand?”

His brother looks down at the paper, frowning.

“Is that my baptismal certificate?”

“It was in the storage room off the kitchen,” Mycroft says. “You must have left it there.”

“The storage room with the steel door, twelve-digit security code, and infrared motion detectors? Yes, I pop in all the time.”

Mycroft scowls. “Anyway, we have it now.” He shuts the office door and sits back at the desk.

It’s another hour before everything is filled out in triplicate, signed, stamped, and witnessed, but that’s actually an hour earlier than they anticipated. Like most real-life spies, Mycroft has a gift for dispatching paperwork quickly. He finishes the last form with a flourish of his pen. “There. According to Her Majesty’s Government, you now officially exist.”

Sherlock stands, stretching to get the kinks out. “I feel more corporeal already.” He pauses, looking at his brother’s ink-blotted hand. “Thank you, Mycroft.”

He expects some sort of sarcastic rejoinder, but his brother just says, “You’re welcome.” 

Sherlock looks at his watch. “I should go. It’s nearly time for Nero’s nap.”

“I’ll come with you,” Mycroft says, rising. When Sherlock looks at him confusedly: “The security system. Remember? I want another look at the lounge windows.”

Mycroft was nagging Sherlock about this even before New Year’s. With Moriarty on the loose, it’s probably a good idea. Sherlock doesn’t expect that any system in the world could keep the lunatic out if he wants in, but it might provide a few moments’ notice.

“How much do you think it’s going to cost?” Sherlock says. He still has some of the funds from his secret account, but they won’t last forever, especially if he spends them on retina sensors and motion detectors.

“Consider it a birthday present. You’ve already got plenty of towels.” Mycroft pauses, tapping a finger on the blotter. “I’ve hesitated to say anything. I know it’s a delicate subject. But—what are you going to do about the money?”

Sherlock sighs. “I really don’t think—”

“No, I don’t think John Watson plans to abscond to the Caymans, either. But it is something the two of you should discuss.”

“Yes. Eventually.”

“It’s going to be an involved process, transferring everything. The sooner you start the better. You should contact his solicitor.”

“I’ve had enough contact with his solicitor.” Sherlock indicates the fading bruise on his cheek. 

Mycroft smirks. “Spirited woman. A shame she seems committed to the private sector.”

Of course Mycroft likes Harry. She’s Bess in human form. “Why don’t _you_ contact her?”

“I could do that,” Mycroft says. He’s silent once more, tapping a tune on the desk. It sounds like Ravel’s ‘Bolero.’ Finally, he rouses himself. “There is another solution, of course. Much faster, far less paperwork.” 

“It sounds promising so far.”

“Marry him. Then all property will be held in—” Mycroft catches his arm as Sherlock whirls around to walk out. “I’m not needling you, Sherlock. It _is_ the best way, don’t you think?”

Sherlock remains still a moment, his hand on the doorknob. “John’s not gay,” he says. “What makes you think he would marry me?”

“Security?” When Sherlock doesn’t smile, he sighs. “I’m sorry. I know things are difficult.”

“He’s barely speaking to me. He wanders around like an unquiet spirit. If John ever had feelings in that direction—which he certainly did not—now isn’t the time to bring them up. I’m not sure when the time will be. Probably never.” 

“‘The risk of a wrong decision is preferable to the terror of indecision,’” Mycroft says. 

“Maimonides. I’m familiar with the quote.” Sherlock opens the office door, stepping out of the sepia atmosphere with the feeling of a weight being lifted.

Julia is sitting on the lounge sofa, holding Nero. Sherlock stifles the stab of negativity he feels whenever he’s confronted by Jools Siviter’s daughter. It’s an ingrained reaction, formed long before he ever knew of Irene Adler or her connection to the Siviter clan. 

He’s known Julia for so long, he can’t remember not knowing her. He remembers her as she used to be. She was a rosy, happy child, with dimpled knees and a winning smile. Just the sort of daughter any man would want. Sherlock can see young Julia clearly, various scenes stored in Siger’s part of the memory palace. There are many scenes, but let one stand for all the rest.

_Julia is sitting on Siger’s knee. His hands are around her waist, holding her as she colors at his desk. He focuses on her paper with real attention, the sort he usually reserves for secret treaties and classified dossiers. Finally, Julia throws down her crayon with a satisfied air._

_“What is that, Julie my love?”_

_“It’s Wally!” she says, as if it’s obvious._

_Siger picks up the paper. Then he looks over at the giant orange cat atop the piano. “You’ve captured Walsingham exactly. May I have this?”_

_Julia considers. “Can I have a sweetie?”_

_Siger opens the glass jar on his desk. It’s full of yellow ovals. Lemon drops, Julia’s favorite. “Two sweets for the picture,” he says._

_“Five.”_

_“No. When your mum and dad get back from dinner, I’m not giving them a sick Julie. Two.”_

_Julia gazes up at him, blinking her big, long-lashed blue eyes. “Four? Please?”_

_Siger Holmes, scourge of dictators, the terror of ministers everywhere, capitulates with a sigh. “Four, then. Don’t tell your mum.” He counts out the sweets, which Julia clutches greedily in her fat little fist. Siger carefully stores the paper in a drawer of his desk._

_That’s when Sherlock, lurking in the shadows outside his father’s office, catches a glimpse of the drawing. It’s a ball of orange scribbles. It doesn’t look like_ anything. 

_He must make a noise then, some huff of disgust or envy, because his father looks up sharply. Light from the desk lamp glints in his silver hair, it highlights the pouches under his grey eyes. They don’t warm a bit at the sight of his youngest son._

_“What are you doing, boy? Go to bed.”_

How old was Sherlock then? Seven, perhaps. He couldn’t have been much older, for his father shipped him off to boarding school the next year. 

Julia cried at Siger’s funeral; she was the only one. Sherlock, by then seventeen, the veteran of nine years of institutional care, could have smacked her.

He shouldn’t hold a grudge, he knows this. Despite his visceral aversion, he pities Julia much more than he dislikes her. She isn’t a smiling, rosy child anymore. Pretty little Julie vanished years ago, replaced by the woman on the sofa. Julia is still lovely, though it isn’t the kind of beauty that beckons: a glassy beauty, chill and distant, like a maiden trapped under ice. An inevitable metamorphosis, perhaps, after her mother died and her father’s attention clamped down on her like an almighty vise. It was freeze or fall apart.

Julia is looking more thawed today, however, bouncing Nero on her knee and smiling. Under other circumstances, Sherlock might be irritated at the bond which has sprung up between his son and Julia—another Holmes man infatuated—but it’s a relief to see Nero in a sustained good mood. He’s been mercurial since he lost his mother, smiling one minute, wailing the next. Even Danica can’t always calm him down. The first days after Christmas were particularly difficult. Watching Nero spit up formula and scream for his mother’s breast was so awful. Sherlock had to leave the room several times, walk out into the cold December air and catch his breath.

Things were better after the first shock was over. By New Year’s, Nero was eating normally again, but it wasn’t just the passage of days that seemed to comfort him. It was _her._

Julia has Nero by his plump wrists, waving his little arms about while she bounces him. He laughs and laughs, mirroring her own delighted expression.

“Enough,” Danica says, after another minute or so.

“Oh, but he’s having such a good time!” Julia says.

“He always has good time, until he puke. A pity if he ruin your pretty shirt.” Danica looks admiringly at Julia’s blue silk blouse.

With one last, colossal bounce, Julia stops. She cuddles Nero to her breast. He stares up at her, his eyes fixed upon her face. 

“He like you very much,” Danica says.

“It’s odd,” Julia says. “I’m not usually much with babies.”

Danica’s cheerful expression has sobered. “You look like his mama. He misses her.”

Sherlock turns away, staring at the picture of Grandfather Edmund hung between the windows. 

He hasn’t told anyone about Irene’s revelations just before she died. Mycroft knows that Irene Adler is Nero’s mother. Julia, as his confidential assistant, is also aware. But they don’t know that Irene was a Siviter and Julia’s half-sister. It’s doubtful that anyone’s life would be improved by that information. Also, to reveal the connection might bring unwanted attention from another quarter. One never knows what Jools Siviter will do with a secret, but it’s usually disagreeable. 

Mycroft suggested a DNA test. His opinion of Irene is not any better than John’s, and despite the physical resemblance he is not inclined to trust her word about Nero’s paternity. Sherlock said no. Even if Nero weren’t biologically his, he’s still Nero’s father.

He doesn’t return from his ruminations until Mycroft speaks.

“Is it my imagination, or has the boy’s clothing changed color?”

“I brought him a little prezzie,” Julia says. “The color suits him, don’t you think?” She runs a fond hand over Nero’s new, lemon-yellow jumper.

“Is that cashmere?” Mycroft says. “Not very practical.”

“No,” Julia says. “But doesn’t he look lovely?” She snuggles Nero, who reaches up and pats her cheek with one dimpled hand. It’s a sweet picture, but Sherlock doesn’t concentrate on it. More interesting is the look on his brother’s face. It’s so subtle and so quickly suppressed that anyone else would miss it. But Sherlock sees. It only confirms knowledge he’s had for years.

 _My dear brother,_ he thinks. _I wonder which you want more. The baby, or the girl?_

When Mycroft was a boy, he was nice to Julia because it pleased his father. After Siger’s death, Mycroft continued his avuncular attentions, partly out of habit and partly out of concern for her repressive home life. But it’s been years since he regarded her as an older brother. His manner with Julia is nothing but correct: Mycroft’s behavior is always correct. Whatever longings she inspires, he would no more seduce her than he would his blood sister. Rather a pity, really. If Julia wants a rescuer, Mycroft is the one man who might succeed in appeasing her father. But his honor—and his history—makes such an intervention impossible. 

Danica shoulders the nappy bag, reaching for Nero. “Come, _dragi._ Time for your nap.” Nero wails so loudly at the prospect of being taken from Julia, she desists for the moment. “Bad boy! You see Julia tomorrow. She bring you more presents, maybe.” 

“Are we meeting tomorrow?” Julia says. “I don’t remember putting anything on my calendar.”

Danica shrugs. “Why not? We go to that store—I do not remember name. The one with food.”

“Harrods. Of course. They have a wonderful children’s department. We could have lunch.” She seems genuinely excited by the prospect. It occurs to Sherlock that Julia is starved for female company.

She looks at the clock on the mantelpiece. “Lord! Is it four o’clock already? I was supposed to be home an hour ago.” She starts glancing around for her purse, but before she finds it there is a loud, peremptory knock at the door. She looks at Mycroft, grimacing.

Mycroft, his face smoothing into polite welcome, crosses the lounge to answer the door. He has barely got it open when a man sweeps right past him. He’s tall, balding, and angular, wearing a superbly cut pinstriped charcoal suit and lavender tie. 

“All right, Holmes, disgorge all prisoners!” 

“I do apologize,” Mycroft says. “We lost track of time.”

“On a Saturday, too! I’ve a mind to report you to Health & Safety.” He smiles, though it doesn’t touch his eyes. This doesn’t mean that he’s particularly upset: None of his smiles do.

At first glance, Jools Siviter looks like any of a hundred mid-level government bureaucrats scuttling around Whitehall. He may seem quicker than most, with a witty cynicism that appears to take nothing in the world seriously. But despite his charm (and he can be very charming, in his drawling way) you wouldn’t think him anyone special. Rich, perhaps, but not remarkable.

If someone told you that Jools is the most powerful man in England, you wouldn’t believe it. He is also one of the cleverest men, and quite possibly the cruelest. You won’t believe this, unless Jools ever has reason to pay you special attention. Then you will see why he’s called the Wolf. Once he gets his teeth into you, he doesn’t let go.

Siger Holmes was the only person who ever had a real hold over Jools. How he did this was never documented, but according to Mycroft, who has good reason to know, there were a few occasions when Siger brought the Wolf to heel. It probably had something to do with Siger’s own unique and ruthless dominance. Like all canines, Jools can respect a clear hierarchy.

He strides into the lounge. His wide-set, pale blue eyes sweep the room. He nods politely enough to everyone, but his gaze doesn’t really warm until he sees Julia. He gives her a wry look, tapping his watch. 

“I did text,” he says. “Several times.”

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I put my phone away. The baby was trying to eat it.”

“Ah! That explains it. Well, can’t have the young ‘uns swallowing glass, can one? The NHS is overburdened as it is.” He draws closer to the sofa, where Julia is still sitting with Nero in her lap. “Handsome mite, isn’t he? What’s his name?”

“Nero.”

“Good heavens, you don’t hear that one much, do you? Though come to think of it, I had a great-uncle called Nero. Ivory trader, made a fortune in the Congo. Subjugating the natives, buckets of hands and so forth. Nasty character, but what can you do? Family is family.” He pats Nero on his curly head. “Who’s this one belong to, then?”

“He’s mine,” Sherlock says, taking his son from Julia. The baby won’t make a fuss if he holds him. Also, he really wants Jools to stop touching Nero. 

“Holmes minor! This _is_ a surprise,” Jools says.

“I sent you the brief a week ago,” Mycroft says, coming to stand by his brother.

“Oh, I saw it. Knew your little brother had gone and gotten himself resurrected. But this—” Jools chucks the baby under the chin. “However did you manage it, Sherlock? I assume there was a great deal of alcohol involved.” He sniggers. 

_I shagged your bastard daughter, you berk,_ Sherlock thinks. But he says nothing.

“We should go,” Julia says, breaking the awkward silence. “Daddy and I have opera tickets.”

 _“Götterdämerung,”_ Jools says, his tongue rolling over the syllables with real satisfaction. “Nothing like Wagner, is there? He even makes the apocalypse appealing. They’ve done a bang-up job with the production this time around, no more fat Valkyries spoiling the effect. I would invite you all, but tickets have been sold out for months.” 

“That’s kind,” Mycroft says. “But Sherlock and I have a previous engagement in any case.”

“Yes, there must be lots to talk about when one of you has been dead for six months. When is that doctor chappie of yours going to be posting in his blog again, Sherlock? I’m waiting with baited breath to see how the _hoi polloi_ responds to news of your miraculous return.” 

“When the time is right,” Mycroft says, when Sherlock doesn’t reply. “It’s a delicate situation.”

“I suppose it is. Especially with this little tyke in the picture. Gave Watson quite a turn, I wager. He’s a queer one, your partner. In my day, they’d have chucked him right out of the service for that business with the Yank sniper, but things have changed since the ’70s.” Jools sighs. 

Sherlock is finally shocked into speech. “What?”

“Daddy, the time,” Julia says. “Remember, the reservation at Mon Plaisir is for six o’clock.”

“Blast, that’s right! Service there takes forever, too. You know the frogs. I am _not_ missing the Prologue: Brünnhilde’s solo is the best bloody song in the whole production.” With alacrity, he starts walking towards the front door.

He’s almost to the vestibule when he appears to notice Danica for the first time. She’s been standing on the edge of things, quietly observing. Jools stops in his tracks. His gaze sweeps over her small, curvaceous form.

“Well,” he says. “And who is this?”

“Danica Cvetković,” she says, raising her chin. “I care for Nero.”

“Is that so?” Jools quirks an eyebrow. “Wherever did Sherlock find you?”

“Montenegro. I also keep house for him.”

Jools glances at Sherlock. “My opinion of you rises by the minute, dear boy.” He looks back at his real quarry. “It’s very nice to meet you, Danica Cvetković.”

Danica extends a hand to shake, but Jools raises it to his lips. His nostrils twitch. 

“Almonds,” he says. “Delicious.”

“Daddy.” Julia’s face is more frozen than ever, but her hand has tightened on the strap of her purse until the knuckles are white. 

Jools ignores his daughter, still looking at Danica. He says something to her in rapid Serbian.

Whatever it is, Danica doesn’t blush. She seldom does. But her shoulders straighten. She gives an impassive shrug, speaking more slowly than Jools. _“Možda. Ja sam veoma zauzet.”_

Jools smirks. “Busy, eh? We’ll see.” He lets go of her hand with reluctance. Twinkling with terrible good humor, his eyes take in the room. “Mycroft, Sherlock. Always a pleasure, lads.” 

Julia gives them an apologetic look before following her father out the door. Nero makes a sad sound as he loses sight of her.

The next few minutes are quiet. Nobody speaks as Danica finishes gathering up Nero’s things. Then they head down the front steps to Mycroft’s car. Everyone is buckled into the Bentley, and Mycroft is turning onto Marylebone Road before the silence is broken. 

“I realize it’s your own business,” Sherlock says, twisting around to address Danica in the back seat. “But you should avoid the attention of a man like Jools Siviter.”

“Why?”

“He’s more than twice your age, for one.”

She shrugs. “He is rich, yes?”

“Yes,” Sherlock says. “But that’s not the point.”

“He remind me of my Uncle Vladan. He was also rich. He carry coins in his pockets just for children. My uncle give me many coins when I was small.”

“Whatever Oedipal fixation you’re fostering, Jools Siviter isn’t—”

“My uncle was serious criminal,” she continues, as if Sherlock hasn’t spoken. “Men like him have girlfriends, yes? He had one. Nice lady. Not smart, but pretty. Her name was Jasna. He give her many coins, too.”

“You are not hearing—”

“Shut up,” Danica says. “Jasna make my uncle angry somehow. We do not see her for a long time. Later, they find her head in Becici Bay. What happen to the rest of her, nobody knows.” 

She pauses a moment, adjusting Nero’s cap. She smooths his curls, then continues. “When I see Jools Siviter, I see Uncle Vladan.” She looks up at Sherlock, her own gaze keen and cold. “I am not stupid.”

“No,” Sherlock says. “You are not.”

“Jools is a brilliant man,” Mycroft says. But the words are quiet, as if he’s trying to convince himself of something.

“He is a monster,” Danica says. “I know it. So do you.” She straightens Nero’s new yellow jumper. “Julia know it, too. Poor girl, somebody should marry her. Take her away.”

For a moment, Mycroft’s eyes meet Danica’s in the rearview mirror. Then he looks away quite pointedly, concentrating on the traffic. The rest of the trip to Baker Street continues in silence.


	35. Chapter 35

** John, 5 January 2013 **

_Some minutes earlier_

John has been waiting at Speedy’s for over half an hour by the time Neville walks through the door. He’s tousled and harried, which isn’t unusual. He plops down at the table, unwinding his favorite scarf (red and white stripes, just like the one the Beatles wore in _Help!_ )

“Sorry I’m late,” he says breathlessly. “The Disney Store on Oxford Street was a madhouse.” Seeing John’s expression: “I know, I know, whatever possessed me to enter that particular retail hell? A lovely ginger lady named Merida. Limited edition, 18 inches tall, with bow and arrows and broadsword. A bargain at two hundred quid.”

“Two hundred—are you mad?”

“No, mate, I’m desperate. It’s what Sophie wanted for Christmas. The _only_ thing, but the dolls were sold out everywhere. The Disney Store just got a shipment today. I was queuing with the other pathetic single dads when I got your text.” He shakes his head. “If I’d known what I was getting into when I took her to see that damn movie! My poor girl has been assimilated.”

“I’m surprised she doesn’t have a doll already.”

“She has seven Merida dolls. Plus the snowglobe, the luggage, and the art set. Also a watch, a hoodie, and three t-shirts. And a full replica costume, complete with gold gladiator sandals so tacky a stripper would blush to own them. But _this_ Merida is the best. Mind you, it was a bit of a close call—a fat Tory cut the line and snatched the last one. Lucky I knew the store manager when he was a busboy at Barcode.”

“Is this the Biblical ‘know’?”

“Let’s just say that Stuart has reason to think well of me. He told Winston Churchill to sod off (in a nice way, it _is_ Disney) and Merida was mine. Stu wrapped her up and put her in the UPS—total VIP service. Then he wanted my new mobile number. Of course, I couldn’t say no. I’ll probably end up doing unspeakable things on his Mickey Mouse duvet.” 

Neville sighs. “But the doll is very nice.”

“What a good dad you are,” John says.

Neville snorts and twists around to scan the café. “Where the hell is Huxley, anyway?”

“Fashionably late, I suppose.”

“Why are we having this meeting again? The deal is off. I mean, obviously.” 

“I told him that. He insisted on meeting anyway. What was I supposed to say?”

“How about ‘no’? Two letters, J. It’s not hard.”

“Two hundred quid, Nev. For a doll she already owns.”

“This one has a black dress,” he says, slumping. But soon he straightens. “I love my daughter. Unless you really haven’t been telling me something, you don’t love Ford Huxley.”

“He wanted to know why the deal was off. He insisted I give him a reason.” John’s hand has tightened on his can of Coke. “That explanation is not something you can text.”

Five days since Sherlock rose from the dead, and John is still trying to process. Processing has involved lots of sitting alone in his room, staring blankly out of the window. He has discovered a new love for the space. It’s not elegant like Sherlock’s bedroom, though it’s kept equally neat. The green wallpaper, the gold quilt and curtains, and the sturdy mismatched furniture were all there when John moved in. His clothes in the closet, his watch case on the chest, and the trunk at the foot of the bed which holds his few prized possessions—these are the only indications that John sleeps there. He’s not attached much to things; he doesn’t nest the way Sherlock does. 

These days, it’s the only room in the house that’s free of the new intrusions. Faust has made a few forays—he’s already chewed holes in two of John’s jumpers. But as long as the door is shut the space is inviolate. Quiet, uncluttered, free of cats and babies. What more could one want? 

When he’s not alone in his modern monk’s cell, there are also the long, aimless walks around London. Perching on a bench overlooking the river, watching the sun move slowly across the water, turning it yellow, then pink, then black. Not peaceful exactly, but mercifully blank. 

Neville has been great about everything, looking after the blog and letting John have his space while he works things out. It’s quite a contrast with Sherlock, who hasn’t said much since New Year’s Day but has _looked_ plenty. One more reason John avoids the lounge as much as he can.

“No, that isn’t really something you can explain in 140 characters or less.” Neville gives John’s hand a commiserating squeeze. “Are you going to tell Huxley?”

“I don’t think so. But ‘no, and none of your damn business why’ has to sound better in person.”

Neville frowns. “We can’t keep the blog frozen much longer.”

“I know.”

“Have you looked in the forums the last couple of days? People are getting edgy.”

“I _know.”_

“It’s not my job to break the news. Though God knows any journalist would kill for this scoop. You should do it, official press release or something.”

“It’s not my call either,” John says. _“He_ has to do it.”

“Well, _he_ is mad if he puts it off. Someone’s gonna see him at Boots or something, and then there will be hell to pay.”

“Boots? Him? The man spends fifty quid on bath soap.”

“Posh git,” Neville mutters. He runs a hand through his hair. “Sod it. I’m getting crisps.” 

He gets up and goes to the counter. While he orders, John finishes his Coke, wishing there was a shot of whiskey in it. 

“So,” Neville says, once he’s returned. “How are you doing?”

“I’m sorry I left you upstairs the other night. I’ve been meaning to tell you.”

Neville stops with a crisp halfway to his lips. “After what you’d just been through? I got over it. Anyway, it really wasn’t that bad. After I finished vomiting, Danica spirited me away to her flat downstairs. Let me sleep on her sofa, made breakfast when I got up. One of the nicest morning afters in recent memory, even if I didn’t get laid.” Neville pauses, crunching thoughtfully. “Mind you, I could have. She did offer, but in a _nice_ way, you know? Wasn’t upset when I turned her down. Russian girls are something, aren’t they?” 

“She’s Montenegrin.”

“Whatever. You lucked out there, mate. Her muffins are amazing.” Neville smirks. “Brekkie wasn’t bad, either.”

John says nothing. Neville peers at him a moment. “Oh, and I did notice you never answered my question. How are you really?”

“Fine.”

“Uh-huh.” Neville glances around before continuing, “So you and Sherlock have talked?”

John nods.

“Don’t sit there like patience on a monument! What did you say?”

“I’m sorry.”

 _“You_ apologized to him?” When John nods again: _“Why?”_

John looks down at his hands. “I overreacted. I’d been drinking. It accounts for my behavior, but it doesn’t excuse it. I was lucky Sherlock identified himself as fast as he did—I nearly shot him in the face by accident.” He shudders at the memory.

Neville looks up at the ceiling, as if praying for patience. “Your behav— _he faked his death.”_

“He had good reason. I told you about that in my last e-mail.”

“Right. The assassins.” Neville looks unconvinced. “He had a baby with Irene Adler. You do remember Irene, right? Big diamonds, great shoes, totally fucking bonkers?”

John manages not to flinch at Irene’s name. He’s had quite a bit of practice these last few days, as her name crops up often. Danica calls her Iris, but John knows who she means. 

It was a mistake on John’s part, acting like a betrayed spouse. New Year’s Eve was one huge humiliating mistake. The fantasies are to blame. After months of pretending he and Sherlock were in a relationship, John just got confused. This whole situation is very confusing, but one thing John is clear about now: He and Sherlock are _not_ lovers. 

“Sherlock’s personal life is not my business,” he says. The words sound heavy on his lips, but that’s because he’s repeated them over and over the last few days. He’s said them while staring out his bedroom window, at grimy city sidewalks, into the murky waters of the Thames.

“Oh fuck me—”

John looks up at him, hard. “We’re not lovers, Nev. I’m not angry. I have no right to be.”

Neville considers him a moment. “Have you told Sherlock this?”

“Yes. When I came back on New Year’s Day, we had a talk. It really cleared the air. I told him I wasn’t angry. I understood why he took such extreme measures. As for the rest of it, the baby and everything—” John shrugs. “Not my business. I made sure he understood.”

Neville has an odd smile on his lips. “I bet you did.”

“What? You don’t think that was right?” 

“I think it would have been kinder to shoot him in the face.” 

Neville turns his head at the sound of the café door. “That’s our man, if memory serves. He’s a bit greyer, but—yep! That’s Huxley, all right.”

John wants to ask him what the hell he meant by that other thing, but there isn’t time. Their visitor, who had been pausing in the doorway, has spotted them and is approaching the table.

He thought he was fresh out of adrenaline after New Year’s, but as Huxley comes nearer, John feels his stomach give a queer little flip. Not so shocking, perhaps: Resurrections are all very well, but it’s not every day that you meet a man with five Oscars. 

Even if he wasn’t famous, Ford Huxley would draw attention wherever he went. Shakti, the café manager, is standing behind the cash register with her mouth open, staring. The older gay couple by the window is more subtle, but their eyes never leave him as he crosses Speedy’s small space. Three American tourists—all female, none of them a day over 20—giggle flirtatiously when he threads his way around their table: “Excuse me, ladies. Close quarters, isn’t it?” His voice is deep and melodious, with intonations not very English. 

The pictures online don’t do him justice. They show a tall, dark-haired man with distinguished silver glints at his temples. They dutifully reproduce his high cheekbones and piercing blue eyes. The high-def snaps make his bronzed skin and white smile evident. But photos never capture charisma. Which Ford Huxley has, in excess. He seems to move in his own personal spotlight. 

“Fucking hell,” Neville breathes. “And he’s wearing Cavalli. _Of course.”_

John has no idea who Cavalli is. But Huxley’s outfit is as striking as the rest of him, a three-quarter length distressed leather coat with a wool suit beneath. The coat and the suit are exactly the same shade of silver grey, but sufficient contrast is provided by texture: the roughness of the leather, the fineness of the wool. Under the suit he’s wearing a blue shirt so pale it looks white. You might think it is white, if it weren’t for the snowy scarf thrown casually around the neck of his coat. His shoes are black, pointed, and highly polished. The overall impression is effortless style and money, money, money. 

John glances down at his sensible brown jumper, feeling self-conscious. He’s used to being outdressed—by Sherlock, by Mycroft, sometimes even by Neville. But none of them comes close to capturing Huxley’s rock star chic. 

Huxley stops by their table. He favors them with his smile, which is even brighter in person. He extends a long, tanned, manicured hand. His gaze sweeps over John from head to foot, seeming to take in everything with one glance. His eyes are darker than they look in pictures, more grey than blue. They are not as warm as his smile.

“John Watson,” he says. “It’s nice to finally put a face with a name. I’ve seen pictures online, of course, but it’s not the same thing, is it?”

John blinks at this, so close to his own thoughts of a few moments ago. But he shrugs it off as coincidence. He takes the offered hand. The grip is very firm and very warm. This close, John can smell Ford’s cologne, a heady lemony scent with musky undertones.

Ford holds the handshake for just the right amount of time before turning his attention to Neville. “Hi. I’m Ford,” he says, totally unnecessarily.

Neville accepts the handshake, despite his stated loathing for the man. John doesn’t blame him. It would probably be difficult to deny Ford Huxley anything. Which makes the task ahead seem that much more impossible.

“Neville St. Clair.”

Ford’s smile widens. “Very nice to meet you.” 

Is it John’s imagination, or does Ford hold this handshake longer than necessary? Those smoky eyes seem to linger on Neville’s face. Neville meets the gaze but he’s blinking too much, like the late day sun has gotten into his eyes. Or maybe that’s just the light reflecting off Ford’s teeth.

“We’ve met before,” Neville says. 

“I can’t believe that,” Ford says. “I would have remembered you.” 

Neville raises his chin. “I have a blog called _The Twisted Lip._ You must remember it.”

“Nope. Doesn’t ring a bell. Great title, though.”

Neville stares at him confusedly, but Ford just releases his hand and takes a seat at their table.

“You don’t mind, do you? I did a mile too much on the treadmill this morning—my arches are fucking aching. Should probably take up yoga or something, but I’m not that bloody gay.” Ford looks at the menu over the counter. “What’s good here? Don’t suppose they have kombucha, do they? Just as well, I don’t need any more caffeine. I already had two disappointing espressos at breakfast. The English fundamentally don’t understand coffee, I don’t know why. I’d kill for a Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf, but the best one can hope for here is Starbucks.” He grimaces.

“We met six years ago,” Neville persists. _“The Yellow Wallpaper_ premiere. You were really—”

“Ah! No wonder I’m drawing a blank,” Ford says, not taking his eyes from the menu. “I had food poisoning that night. Barely made it down the red carpet without ralphing. There’s some nice footage for the E! Channel.”

“Oh,” Neville says. “Sorry.” 

“Why?” Ford says. “You didn’t serve me that rotten shellfish, did you?” 

“Of course not.”

“I didn’t think so.” Ford turns his head, giving Neville his full focus. “Waiters in London are never that cute.” He winks at him. 

Neville flushes pink, which makes him look even more boyish than usual. Ford turns to John, raising an eyebrow. “Well done, Watson. Get ‘em young and train ‘em up right, yeah?” 

“What? No. We’re not—” But Ford has already gotten up and walked towards the counter.

“Bottle of Evian, love,” he says to Shakti. “Did you make those pomegranate scones yourself? They look absolutely scrumptious.”

“Yes, I did,” Shakti says. “Would you like one?”

“Oh my God, I would love to. But I’d better not. Have to keep my boyish figure.” Ford pats his admirably flat abdomen.

“They’re low-fat. I eat them all the time.”

“Well. You’re certainly your own best advertisement, aren’t you?” Ford’s smile suggests that he has never seen anything quite so fetching as this fortysomething mother of three in her polyester Speedy’s smock. “I really shouldn’t.”

Shakti insists that _no,_ he must try one. While the argument continues, John turns back around.

Neville’s eyes are the size of saucers. “Who the fuck is that?”

“I believe that’s Ford Huxley.”

“I was going to let him have it, John. I had a speech all prepared. And he—he _flirted_ with me! My lovely nasty speech, I don’t remember a word of it.”

“At least he’s forgotten about suing you.”

“It was just a C&D. His people probably send a thousand of those a year.” Neville looks bitter. “He never read my blog. Why did I think he would?” 

“There there,” John says. “Next time his lawyers threaten to take everything you own, I’m sure they’ll tell Ford all about it.”

“That’s not Ford Huxley,” Neville whispers. “That’s Satan.”

“I can’t quite put my finger on it, but he reminds me of someone.”

“Satan?”

John runs his hands down his face. “All I have to do is say ‘no.’ It’s not hard. Just two letters.”

“He’s the Prince of Darkness, mate. In a £3000 Cavalli suit. We don’t stand a chance.”

Before John can reply to this, Ford is returning. He has a bottle of Evian in one hand and a plate containing three pomegranate scones in the other. 

“Tea time, lads,” he says. “Shakti’s providing these gratis. One thing I learned in college is to never, ever turn down free food.”

“I’m not much on pomegranates—”

“I just had crisps—”

Ford dismisses these protests with a flick of his finger. “Eat. I hate scarfing carbs alone.”

John is about to refuse again. He really doesn’t like pomegranates. But Ford just pushes the plate over, fixing him with his eyes. Something in the look—a little amused, more than a little challenging—makes John reach for a scone. After all, it has to be better than chicken feet.

Now why is he thinking of those?

The scone is quite good, actually, candied orange peel balancing the sourness of pomegranate. Ford gives John a satisfied nod, then turns to Neville.

Neville shakes his head. “I told you, I just had crisps—”

“What are you worried about, kiddo? Wait until you hit the big 3-0, that’s when the metabolism really goes to hell.” Ford sighs. “I used to eat bacon. But it was a very long time ago.”

“I’m 32,” Neville says tightly. 

“Holy shit. What brand of moisturizer do you use?” Ford shakes his head. “Oh, right, this is England. Of course you don’t age. It’s like a Bradbury story, nobody has seen the sun for 12 years.” He tilts his head at Neville, smiling. “Still, one can’t argue with the results, can one?”

Neville stuffs a bite of scone in his mouth, looking confused again.

“We should probably get down to business,” John says. They may as well get the unpleasantness over with, before the sugar crash from the scone makes him agree to something he shouldn’t. Also, if Neville gets any redder he’s going to hemorrhage. 

“Ford, I just want to say that I really appreciate your interest—”

“Oh God,” Ford says, brushing a few crumbs off his coat. “This sounds like a break-up. Are you dumping me already? We haven’t even gotten to second base, John. At least feel my tits before you decide I’m not worth taking to Prom.” 

Ford turns those warm grey eyes on him, and suddenly John is feeling a little flushed himself. 

He blinks, trying to focus. “It’s not that I don’t find you—I mean, _the deal_ is very attractive. But circumstances have changed.”

“You mentioned that in your last e-mail. What circumstances?”

“I can’t really—”

“It’s not money, is it? Because of course that’s negotiable.”

“No, the money is fine.”

“You bet your ass it is,” Ford says, suddenly sounding very American. “You’re not going to get a better offer than that. Not unless—” His gaze narrows. “Ritchie hasn’t been talking to you, has he?” He straightens, eyebrows drawing together. “He _has_ —that sneaky dick!”

“Ritchie?”

“Don’t play dumb: Guy Ritchie. I heard he was sniffing around. I was at the Polo Lounge last week with Harvey, and he mentioned—listen, you don’t want to be Ritchie’s comeback vehicle. Yes, we all liked _Lock, Stock, and Two Smoking Barrels,_ but what’s he done since? It’s not your fault Madonna shagged the talent out of him.”

“I liked _Snatch,”_ Neville says around a mouthful. He’s finished his scone and started on John’s.

 _“Snatch_ was an excrescence,” Ford says. “Nobody noticed because Brad Pitt spent half the film half-naked. The man’s torso has hypnotic properties—it makes any piece-of-shit script work. I call it the _Fight Club_ effect.”

“Are you kidding?” Neville says. _“Fight Club_ is brilliant.”

“Shh, sweetie. That’s the Vitamin D deficiency talking. May I suggest a sun lamp?”

“Oh, you are _really—”_

“I haven’t been talking to Guy Ritchie,” John cuts in.

“Wonderful,” Ford says. “So what’s the problem?”

John looks at Neville for support, but Neville is still stuffing his face and glaring at Ford. John looks back at the man himself. He doesn’t seem angry—he’s even smiling—but Ford’s eyes are chillingly focused. This is the look of someone determined to find out what he wants to know, if he has to punch through skull and brain to do it. It sends a shiver down John’s spine. 

(Is this when he should have realized? Probably. But Ford’s name threw him off—his fame did. So much talent in one family, it’s hard to believe. But of course it makes perfect sense when you consider it. So much extraordinary talent, they _must_ be related.) 

But the shiver is useful. It reminds him of someone else, not Sherlock. John sees his answer then. It’s so simple, he doesn’t know why he didn’t think of it before.

When he says the words, he tries to give them the air of someone betraying a secret against his better judgment. That’s actually true: He was sworn to secrecy during the talk on New Year’s Day. This just isn’t the real secret.

“Moriarty is alive,” he says. 

Ford goes still. Another emotion flickers across his face. It’s gone so fast that John isn’t certain he didn’t imagine it. It’s an odd reaction to see on those smooth, handsome features.

 _Rage,_ John thinks. _What could Ford Huxley be so angry about?_

But Ford smiles again, as charming as ever, and John is certain he did imagine it. 

“Well. This is definitely a plot twist,” Ford says. “Are you sure?”

“I haven’t seen the actual intelligence reports. But the source is trustworthy.”

“Intelligence, hmm.” Ford seems to consider the word carefully. Then he shrugs. “It’s not a problem. Just rework the third act, I’ve done it before.”

“You don’t understand,” John says. “I know you’ve seen the newspaper articles and the blog posts, but you haven’t met the man. Jim Moriarty is incredibly dangerous. If you were to take on the project, it would put you in his line of sight.” 

“I’m not worried.”

“Why the fuck not?” Neville says. “Even if you just read the written accounts, you must see—”

“I do see. Moriarty is an actor, not a very good one. Have you seen his _Storyteller_ series? It’s like a braindead _Blue’s Clues._ Considering how fucking stupid _Blue’s Clues_ is already—” 

_“He’s a violent psychopath.”_

“I’ve worked with Russell Crowe.”

Neville looks helplessly at John.

“Neville is right,” John says. “Whether you see the danger or not is beside the point. We’re not going to be responsible for putting an innocent person in harm’s way.”

 _“Innocent,”_ Ford says. “There’s something I haven’t been called in a while.” He balls up his napkin and throws it on the plate. “I’m not taking ‘no’ for an answer, boys.”

John slumps back in his chair, exasperated. “Why do you want this so much?”

“I have a fragile ego. I don’t take rejection well.”

Neville snorts, but John is not distracted. “You could have any story you like. Why this one?” 

“I think I’m worried about _your_ ego. Don’t you believe in your own narrative?”

“We’re not talking about me. It’s a simple question, Ford: Why my blog?”

Ford is silent a moment, looking down. His expression is calm, but his hands are not. His restless fingers tap on the table like he’s hearing a tune in his head. When he speaks again the words are quieter, more measured. For the first time, you can hear his true origins in his voice. 

“I’m not a neophyte, you know. I’ve been reading the blog for a long time. Almost since the beginning. What is it, nearly three years now? You really do underestimate your writing, John. You have a gift for capturing a world on a page. When I read your entries I could see 221-B, the shabby flat with the eyeballs in the microwave and the Guarneri on the music stand. I could hear that violin. I could hear Sherlock himself, declaiming about some esoteric nonsense nobody else in the world cares about. I could _see_ him, awkward and brilliant, arrogant and splendid. Apollo in a moth-eaten dressing gown. It was fascinating. He is—was—fascinating.”

Ford raises his eyes. He’s not smiling now. But his expression is somehow nicer than any John has seen on his face before. Because it’s real. The grief on his face, it’s genuine.

“I didn’t know Sherlock. But I felt as if I did when I read the stories. I feel like I know you. You’re fascinating too, in your way. Even now that Sherlock is dead, when it can do no good at all, you fight for him. That kind of loyalty is very rare. You shouldn’t wonder that I want to tell your story. Wonder instead why every director in the world isn’t begging for the privilege.”

John doesn’t answer. If he says a word, he’ll burst into tears right at the table. He can’t imagine a more embarrassing experience than crying in front of Ford. Except, perhaps, crying in front of Sherlock himself.

Neville puts his hand on John’s, squeezing tight. He scowls at Ford. “Oh, you are very good,” he says. “But it’s not fair. Saying those things to him—what’s wrong with you?”

“It’s the truth.” Ford suddenly looks tired and pale beneath his tan. “He asked, so I told him.”

“You can’t really feel like that,” Neville says. “Not from reading a blog. It’s not possible.”

Ford regards him levelly. “You’re cute, Nev. Clever, too. Those Kubrick influences you found in _The Secret History_ and _Brave New World_? Very clever. But you don’t know the first fucking thing about me.” 

Neville stares at him wide-eyed. Ford returns the look for a moment, his face inscrutable. Then he looks at John. “If you can’t decide today, all right. I can be patient. But there is one favor I would ask.” When John nods: “Can I see the flat?”

John swallows hard. “What?”

“I had a vision in my head,” Ford says. “How Sherlock’s home would look. I didn’t go so far as to start sketching set designs, but—well. Maybe I did, in my head. I would like to satisfy my curiosity. See how reality measures up. You can give me 20 minutes, can’t you?” 

Ford’s left hand dances on the table top. He seems nervous. Needy, in some indefinable way. 

“Okay,” John says, before he can think too hard about it.

 _“John._ What about—” Neville stops. “Your, um, flatmate?”

“Out. Won’t be back for hours.” 

“You have a flatmate?” Ford says. “That’s surprising.”

“It is,” John agrees. “New arrangement. Quite unexpected.” He gets up, nodding towards the back door of Speedy’s, the one which leads out into the ground-floor corridor of the house. It’s usually locked, but John has the key. It _is_ his building, at least for the time being.

Ford rises to follow John. Neville follows Ford, looking dubious about this whole enterprise. But John knows it’s the right thing. Let Ford have his way for the next 20 minutes, then he’ll stop bothering them, at least for now. One of the many knotty problems caused by Sherlock’s resurrection will be temporarily untangled. After the last few days, John could use the win.


	36. Chapter 36

** John, 5 January 2013 (cont.) **

Once they’re on the first floor, John nods up the stairs to 221-B. Ford mounts them with an impatient spring in his step. Soon he’s at the very top, waiting outside the door to the lounge.

Neville pauses at the bottom of the stairs. “Are you sure this is a good idea?” he says.

“No,” John says. “But I can’t think of another way to get him to leave quietly.”

“Exorcism?” When John gives him a look: “He did read my fucking blog. Fibbed about it, smooth as glass. What do you bet he didn’t have any food poisoning on the red carpet?”

John sighs. “What do you want me to say?” 

_“When he lies, he speaks his native language, for he is a liar and the father of lies,”_ Neville quotes darkly. He’s glaring up the stairs like he expects fire and brimstone to start raining down. 

“Hey, are you coming?” Ford calls. “I’d let myself in, but the bloody door is locked.”

“Guess we have no choice,” Neville says. “We ate the damn pomegranates, he owns us now.”

“That’s Hades, not Satan. I doubt he wants to kidnap one of us to be Queen of the Underworld.”

“Speak for yourself. I’m the one Ford thinks is cute.” Neville starts climbing. “Fucker.”

Ford isn’t so rude as to actually shove John out of the way once the door is open, but it’s a very near thing. He stops just off the Persian carpet, looking around. Neville stands with one elbow propped on the huge pile of antique _Strand_ magazines next to the door, glowering. John crosses over to the desk between the windows, half-sitting on the edge. Ford appears to notice neither of them moving. His face has gone still and blank except for his busy, busy eyes. Those grey orbs sweep the room. They seem to notice nothing in particular and everything at once.

John crosses his arms against a shiver.

With a jerk, Ford starts moving again. He crouches by the leather sofa. He runs his hand over the tapestry pillow where Sherlock lays his head for his naps. Then he is up again, staring at the big yellow smiley face spray-painted on the wall. He takes his phone out of his pocket— _snap!_ Close-up photo. Then he points the phone at the pillow. _Snap!_ He takes another.

“Hey, don’t—” Neville begins, but John shakes his head at him. He wants to see what Ford is going to do next. Suddenly, he is dying of curiosity.

Ford’s tall figure brushes past John, his long coat flapping. He looks up at the cow skull with its headphones. He smirks at that. _Snap_ goes the camera. 

He circles around the back of the Le Corbusier chair. His hand trails over the hard metal frame. “It doesn’t match,” he says. “Even more than the rest of the room, it doesn’t.”

“You’re right,” John says. “I don’t know why he chose it.” 

“Maybe he had a—a friend once. One who liked modern design.” That strange neediness is on Ford’s face again.

“Maybe,” John says quietly.

Ford darts to the right-hand bookshelf. John moves beside the Le Corbusier so that he can get a better view. Ford’s fingers are tracing over the spines of books, like he is committing their titles to memory. Briefly, he palms the bell jar with the bird skeleton. He reaches in his pocket once again. _Snap. Snap._

He half-turns. “The music stand—!”

“Right behind you.”

Ford whirls around. That’s when his restless activity stops abruptly. He stares at the instrument on the stand. He stares and stares. He reaches out, testing the glossy varnish of the violin. One long finger traces the pattern of stylized ebony birds on the ribs.

“This isn’t the Guarneri,” he says.

Shit. The instrument is such a new addition, John didn’t think about it. “No,” he says, thinking fast. “Sherlock had more than one violin. That’s a Stradivarius.”

“I know what it is.” 

Ford’s voice has no more expression than a moment ago, but something in it makes John peer closely at his face. Before he can get a good look in his eyes, though, Ford has whirled again.

“Where’s his bedroom? Down there, right? Off the kitchen.”

“Ford, you can’t—” But he is already halfway down the hall. 

_Shit._ Danica has been good enough to keep Nero’s toys and things downstairs in her flat, where the baby spends much—though not all—of his time. She even moved the highchair down there a couple of days ago, after finding the preserved eyeballs in the pantry. (It was the first time John smiled in days, seeing Sherlock cringing once again under a torrent of tiny blonde fury. Danica didn’t punch him like Harry did, but it was a near thing.) 

Most of the place still passes muster as John’s solitary flat. But the bedroom—

John never intended for Ford to see it. He didn’t think Ford would ask. It was never described in the blog, for good reason. Nothing relevant to a case ever happened there, except for Irene’s story, which never saw print. He only mentioned its location in passing, when describing the general layout of 221-B. This, he realizes now, was a mistake.

Just how big a mistake it was is dawning on John. Because Ford is going to see everything. John knows this. With a growing ache in his chest, he _knows._

“John?” Neville says. “What’s wrong?”

“He was right,” John says. “We didn’t know a thing about him. Fucking Wikipedia.”

“What are you—” But John has taken off down the hallway. Neville is right on his heels.

To the normal eye, the bedroom looks nearly identical to how it did last week. Six months in Montenegro have not changed Sherlock’s habits. The bed is made, the drawers are shut, not a single thing is out of place on the curio. But Ford, with his eerie attention to visual detail, will see. Hairs on the carpet, fresh dents on the pillow—he’ll notice it all. Most disastrously, he’ll know the significance of the newest, most obvious difference in the room. 

In the center of Sherlock’s duvet is a fluffy circle of grey and white, snoozing peacefully. 

Seated near the cat, on the edge of the bed, is Ford. 

“His—his name is Faust,” John falters. 

Ford just nods. He reaches out a hand to the cat. Faust raises his head. His white moustaches quiver as his grey nose sniffs Ford’s fingers once, twice. Then he stretches his long body. Quite deliberately, he turns on his back. Like a king granting a signal favor, he presents his gorgeous white belly to be petted by Ford.

Faust never lets John or Danica do this. He barely allows them to pat his head (not that either of them really wants to). Sherlock is the only person allowed, with just one exception. _Mycroft_ is allowed. Maybe it’s pheromones or something. The blood connection, the cat can sense it.

John sags against the door frame, watching Ford pet Faust’s belly in long, deliberate strokes.

The cat suddenly convulses. He digs his teeth into the back of Ford’s hand. But very gently.

Ford smiles down at Faust, and there’s something tremulous in it. Vulnerable. “I had a cat like this as a boy,” he says. “Ginger, but otherwise much the same.”

“I know.” John sighs deeply. “My God, Ford. When were you going to tell me?”

“Tell him what?” Neville says. “I don’t—” Suddenly he stops, staring at Ford as if for the first time. He scrubs his hands through his hair. “Oh fuck me. Another one?”

John is surprised it took Nev this long to see it. He was so quick to properly identify Nero the other day. But names can be distracting, and fame certainly is. But it makes sense when you consider it. Three brothers, much the same. All with that obsessive, bewildering brilliance.

“Sherrinford Holmes,” John rasps. “It’s nice to finally put a face with a name.”

Ford looks up. His features are calm, but his eyes are full of tears. He doesn’t seem ashamed of them. One way, maybe, that he isn’t like his brothers. But Sherrinford _is_ a Holmes, which is why his next words are not surprising.

“When were you going to tell _me,_ John?” He looks around the room like he doesn’t know where to look. “My brother—he’s alive.”

John opens his mouth. He’s quite ready to apologize, explain, commiserate, if he could just come up with the proper words. But before he can begin to articulate, voices come from the lounge. Ford is up again, striding down the hallway.

John and Neville exchange worried looks, and follow him.

“No,” Sherlock is saying as he surveys the room. “I don’t think electrified bars on the lounge windows are an overreaction. I think they’re an _enormous_ over—”

He stops on the edge of the Persian carpet, staring. From his position by the Le Corbusier, Ford stares back. Their resemblance is so marked in this moment that John can’t believe he missed it.

 _“Sherrinford.”_ The name is like a sigh. “I didn’t—” Sherlock cuts off, as one does when one has been caught in a bone-crushing hug. Ford has closed the distance in an instant, clutching his brother to his bosom. The tears are running down his face, but he’s grinning. 

“You magnificent bastard,” he sniffs. “Smoke and mirrors! I should have guessed.”

“Ford—” Sherlock gasps. “I can’t—”

“I knew there was something off about that final footage. I knew it, but I couldn’t make myself watch it closely enough to really see. I saw you jump, I saw you land, but that truck passing in-between—tricky, tricky, tricky—” which each of these last words he gives Sherlock one more tremendous squeeze. Sherlock’s face has gone purple.

“Didn’t know for sure until I saw the Strad. Where the fuck did you find Uncle Evie’s violin? What am I talking about, probably the same place you got that damn cat. He’s Walsingham all over again except for the color, it’s a bit creepy really, but—”

“Sherrinford,” a cool voice says. “Do control yourself, before you asphyxiate him.”

Ford lets Sherlock go. Slowly, he turns to the figure who is standing by the door. Ford’s face changes, tearful joy dimming to something much more cynical. 

“Hey, Mike,” he says, wiping his eyes.

Sherlock is still gasping. “John,” he manages. “This is my brother. I know it must come as—”

“Two steps ahead of you there, mate,” Neville says. Sherlock gives him a sour look.

John turns to Mycroft, who’s gone stone-faced. “Mike? Really?”

“Sure,” Ford says. “Beats the hell out of _Mycroft,_ doesn’t it? My God, Father had crap taste in names. Should’ve listened to Mum about it, but he never did. No wonder she chucked him.”

“What?” John says, looking at Sherlock. “Didn’t your mum—” he stops.

According to Wikipedia, which is sometimes trustworthy, Huxley’s mother is Violet Vernet, the writer. John has never read her, but his Aunt Klaudia and his sister Harry both have a fondness for genre mysteries. He remembers Harry being sad when Vernet died, and mentioning it in one of her infrequent e-mails to John when he was in Afghanistan. What was that, 2006? 2007?

“You said she died when you were a baby,” John says.

Sherlock sticks his hands in his trouser pockets, looking self-conscious. “I didn’t say that.”

John pauses, trying to recall. “All right, maybe not those words exactly. But you let me think—” he stops, shaking his head. Why is he surprised at this point?

“It was a nasty divorce,” Ford says. “Have you seen _The Shadow Son?_ Pretty much sums it up. He gives Mycroft a significant smile. “Right?”

Mycroft has gone so stiff he appears to be made out of granite. “Why are you here, Sherrinford?”

“I am still a citizen,” Ford points out. Then he turns back to Sherlock, straightening his brother’s lapels in an affectionate way. “You look gorgeous. Nice suit. Spencer Hart? Lovely.”

Sherlock gives Ford a searching look. “You’re taking this very well.”

Ford rolls his eyes. _“You-sneaking-sonofabitch-how-could-you._ There. Would you like me to say it in French?” When Sherlock stares: “You’re alive, baby brother. Christ.” He pauses. “How long have you been back from the dead? Hey, there’s a question you don’t get to ask every day.” 

It takes Sherlock a moment to reply. “I returned to London the day after Christmas,” he says, with a glance at John.

December 26th. It took Sherlock five days to get around to telling him that he wasn’t dead. John catches Neville’s commiserating gaze, and looks away. He can’t stand more pity right now.

Ford’s thoughts must be along the same lines, because his smile has dimmed a bit. 

“I see,” he says. Then he seems to rally. “Well! I suppose you had a lot to catch up on before you officially resurrected. How long did it take you to notify Himself?” He smirks at Mycroft. “That must have been a fun conversation.”

“We spoke Christmas Day.”

Ford goes still. Slowly, he pivots towards Mycroft. Steely gaze meets steely gaze. In the time it took him to turn, Ford’s good humor vanished like it never really existed. 

“We spoke on Boxing Day,” he says. “You spent 20 minutes telling me about your cat’s eczema. Twenty fucking minutes, Mycroft.” 

Mycroft just shrugs. But is there the ghost of a smile on those thin lips?

 _“Va te faire enculer,_ you fat piece of shit,” Ford growls.

If a smile was there, it’s gone now. Mycroft takes a step nearer. _“Qu’est-ce t’as dit là?”_

“Oh, you heard me, _Mike.”_

Mycroft flushes. _“Ferme ta clape-merde.”_

“Don’t tell me to shut up! You shut up! _Je peu pas te supporter—”_

The two are suddenly nose-to-nose, screaming at each other in French so fast you can hardly hear individual words, just a flood of hissing syllables. It’s almost funny, these two elegantly dressed fortysomethings totally and instantaneously losing their cool. But no one is laughing. Sherlock, in particular, looks like he’s about to be ill. 

“Stop this,” he says.

_“Tête moi le dard, enculé!”_

_“Va bouffer ta merde, connard!”_

“Stop!”

_“Salop!”_

_“Salaud!”_

“STOP.” Sherlock gets in-between his brothers and pries them apart. “You’re fucking middle-aged, what’s the matter with you?” 

Mycroft and Ford go silent. Both of them look rather embarrassed. They look away from each other, each suddenly interested in straightening his cuffs, in brushing invisible pieces of lint from his expensive suit. They groom themselves like two old tomcats interrupted in a territorial scrap.

“I’m very disappointed,” Sherlock says. “You are both horrible.”

“We’re not the ones who faked our death, mate,” Ford mutters. 

Mycroft makes a choked noise that sounds suspiciously like suppressed laughter. 

You would never notice if you saw them separately. But this close, the resemblance between the two is obvious—same eye color, same height, and, fat jokes to the contrary, similar builds. Ford is handsome and Mycroft is not, but seeing them together, the blood connection is clear. 

Their most salient likeness is attitude. They both have the arrogant assurance of men totally in control of their respective worlds. Ford exudes warmth and Mycroft coldness, but one has to wonder if, despite the difference in surface temperature, there are more similarities beneath. 

“Isn’t that sweet,” Neville whispers in John’s ear. “Satan has a soulmate.”

Sherlock is still standing between his brothers. He exudes neither warmth nor coldness, but his usual protective blankness. It occurs to John that perhaps it was Sherlock’s only option, growing up in the shadow of these two goliaths. What must it be like, trying to define yourself in the face of such amazing success? Oscars on the one hand, geopolitical domination on the other? It must be exciting. It must be hell. How much coke does it take to kill the feelings of inadequacy?

For the first time, John can see Sherlock’s family. It’s as if Sherrinford is the missing piece that was always needed to complete the puzzle. John can picture two extraordinary teenagers, with an owl-eyed baby brother trotting in their wake. John can see a stern, patrician father; a lovely, faithless mother. (Though Violet had reason—John remembers the plot of _The Shadow Son._ ) 

John could have empathized, if Sherlock had told him the truth. But he never said a word. He lied by omission for three years. The first night they knew each other, he did. If Ford hadn’t shown up today, Sherlock would have gone on lying.

John feels it welling up again, a hot black sensation quite unlike the despair he felt before New Year’s. It’s not anger: John knows he has no right to feel that way. Sherlock’s family is his own business. If they were lovers it might be different, but they’re not. John is _not_ angry. 

“Hey,” Neville says. “Are you okay?” He puts a solicitous hand on John’s back.

“Fine,” John says. “Let’s go, yeah? I’m sure these three have lots to talk about.”

“Um, okay. Where did I put my scarf?” Neville starts glancing around.

“That isn’t necessary,” Sherlock says. “You should stay, John.”

John looks at Ford. “By the way, Sherlock has a baby. Cute kid. Looks a bit like you.” 

“Really?” Ford blinks. “How did that happen?”

“Great story. Very romantic. Your brother will tell you all about it.” John gets Neville by the elbow. “Come on, Nev. Feel like taking in a film? I never did see the new James Bond.”

“ _Casino Royale_ was better,” Neville says. “But I could see _Skyfall_ again. Daniel Craig, yum.”

“He’s hotter in real life,” Ford says. “Short, but hot.”

 _“John,”_ Sherlock says. There’s an odd note in his voice. John might think his flatmate is upset about this sudden departure with Neville. Why should he be? What John does in his spare time is none of Sherlock’s business. Never has been, never will be.

“I’ll be back,” John says to him. “Don’t wait up. We’ll probably get drinks after.”

“Not Jäger,” Neville says solemnly. “It’s my New Year’s resolution.”

John sighs. “You won’t make it a week. Remember last year?” Neville resolved last January to give up Grindr, after an unfortunate hook-up with a trick who refused to leave. Not until John showed up at Neville’s flat, playing the violently possessive boyfriend. Despite this harrowing experience, Nev was back on the app by Valentine’s Day, cheerfully fishing for strange.

“Yes, but that one wasn’t practical. It was an Olympic year, J.”

John rolls his eyes, remembering Neville’s stories of shagging his way through all the countries of the world, courtesy of the Olympic village. “Let’s be clear. I do not approve.”

“Yes, you do. You adore me.” He gives him a cheeky smile, blue eyes twinkling. John can’t help smiling back, despite everything. Who doesn’t adore Neville?

In his peripheral vision, John can see Ford staring at Neville like he’s a freshly baked scone. John’s hand tightens on Neville, a gesture not so much possessive as protective. He doesn’t interfere in his friend’s love life—who could keep track? But Ford Huxley? _No._ Nev doesn’t deserve to be fucked by a Holmes brother. Not in any sense of the word. 

Sherlock is also staring at them, but John turns his head away.

On their way out of the lounge, John makes eye contact with the third Holmes brother. Mycroft gives him a long, disapproving look, but John doesn’t bother trying to work out what it means. Mycroft is always disapproving of something. 

John gets an arm around Neville’s shoulders and makes good their escape.


	37. Chapter 37

** Sherlock, 5 January 2013 **

“Well,” Ford says, as they hear the street door slam. “That was awkward.”

Sherlock says nothing, just sits down in the Le Corbusier chair, after a quick glance to make sure that Faust hasn’t snuck in and claimed it. He stares into the dark hole of the hearth. He puts hands to his temples against the sudden migraine assaulting his skull. Anyone with a modicum of mercy would recognize the gesture as a plea for silence. Ford, of course, ignores it. 

“A _baby?”_ he says. “Really? I thought you swore off snatch after Violet Rucastle.”

“Sherrinford,” Mycroft says quellingly, but Ford presses on.

“Where is this miracle child who looks like me? I’m awash with curiosity.”

“He’s with the nanny,” Mycroft answers, when Sherlock won’t. 

“Nanny. Of course. Our kind doesn’t change didies, do we? What a joy it is having children, and paying someone else to raise them. Just don’t ship the poor kid off to boarding school, Sherlock. That’s how sociopaths are made.”

“We went to boarding school,” Mycroft says.

“Exactly.” 

Mycroft sighs. “Why _are_ you here? What on earth are you doing with John Watson?”

“What do you think? I want the blog. Of course, now I have to rewrite the whole third act, but what a twist! Nothing like a resurrection to goose the flabby appetites of the average filmgoer.” 

“Out of the question. You can’t make the film.”

“Don’t worry, Mike. You don’t have to be in it if you don’t wanna. I’ll give Sherlock a sister or something, we need more female characters, anyway. A hot MILF type, Kate Beckinsale could do it, or maybe Kate Winslet. Somebody named Kate. I prefer Winslet; she’s more likely to get naked. Nothing like tits to goose the flabby appetites—”

“You’re not listening. _You can’t do this.”_

“Sure I can. Sorry if you don’t like it, but when has that ever stopped me?”

Mycroft pauses. “John Watson has given you the rights?”

“Not yet,” Ford says. “But he will.” Sherlock hears a creak as Ford settles himself in the other easy chair. Sherlock turns his head to look at his brother. Ford is leaning back in the chair, one ankle resting casually on the opposite knee. His face is bright with suntan and good humor, his blue eyes are vivid and benevolent. He is so out of place among the somber tones of Baker Street, like a brilliant exotic bird that’s landed by accident. But Ford is more than a peacock.

He seems like such a nice man when you first meet him. He’ll even stay that way, as long as you don’t cross him. How can you avoid doing that? Don’t ever tell Ford no. 

“Leave John alone,” Sherlock says. “I’m not joking.”

“Sherlock is right,” Mycroft says. “John Watson is under enough pressure. He doesn’t need you harassing him night and day.”

“Harassing him?” Ford looks genuinely offended. “If by harassment you mean offering to make him filthy rich, then yes. I suppose I am harassing him.”

“John has money,” Sherlock says. “He doesn’t need yours.”

“According to my attorneys, John has _your_ money. Now that you’re no longer dearly departed, he’s poor again. It was rather cruel of you, to give him a taste of financial independence and then take it all away. I’d think John would jump at the chance to have something of his own.” 

Ford steeples his fingers, looking thoughtful. “Unless you’re going to marry him, of course. I suppose that would be the easiest way to set things right. Poor Neville! Sucks being the rebound boy, doesn’t it? How will we make it up to him? I can think of a thing or two.” Ford grins with lecherous intent. “Fucking hell, how did John ever hit _that?_ An English skin and an American ass—there’s a combo I’d like to see more often.”

Sherlock does his best to ignore most of that. “Why are you doing this?” 

“You people are ridiculously self-deprecating. It’s a fucking amazing story. That’s why.” 

“It’s my story. You can’t have it. Listen to me carefully, Ford: I’m saying _no.”_

Ford doesn’t answer. His face has gone totally still, even his gaze is blank. The sight of it gives Sherlock a cold feeling, but not because he’s afraid of his brother. After Moriarty, even Ford’s manipulations seem second-rate. This chill is of much older origin.

Something Mycroft told him once, long ago. This was after Sherlock returned from LA, when he and Mycroft were living companionably enough at Chapel Street. Mycroft had just returned from one of his trips abroad. It must have been a bad one, because he’d eaten three full plates of shepherd’s pie at dinner that night. They were in the lounge after dinner, Mycroft working on his fourth brandy. Perhaps it was the alcohol that loosened his lips, or perhaps it was everything that had happened to him in the last week. Things he would never talk about, but you could see them lurking in his eyes, like ghosts. Departed spirits were much upon his mind that evening.

 _“Sherrinford is his real heir, you know,” Mycroft says, staring into the depths of his brandy glass. “Father didn’t think so, he said Ford was too stubborn for this kind of work, too reckless and arrogant. Amazing that he couldn’t see it. Of all of us, Ford is the most like him. That_ belief _they share, an absolute certainty that whatever they do, they are right to do it. God-like conceit. Ford used to accuse me of envying him, and he was not wrong. But the reason for the envy he never understood. Looks fade, charm is superficial, I don’t want those things. Sherrinford’s total confidence, his ability to do what must be done and never question himself? That I do covet. It must be a very comfortable thing, being God. Lonely, but wonderfully serene.”_

Mycroft fell silent then. Sherlock, fascinated, tried to draw him further out, but Mycroft had said all he meant to say. He finished his brandy and went into the office. Soon came the sound of the piano—Schönberg. It drove Sherlock upstairs; he never could stand the atonal composers. Why create something ugly and dissonant on purpose? 

Sherlock looks at Ford. It’s so odd, seeing him here in London. Mycroft here, too. How long has it been since they were all together? Twenty-five years, easily. A few moments ago, when Ford and Mycroft were screaming at each other in gutter French, it felt like Sherlock was five years old again. Even the nausea and headache were the same. Not so shocking: Holmesian reunions are rarely comfortable affairs.

It’s been nearly seven years since that disastrous film premiere, his last encounter with Ford. Other than the grey at his temples, Ford seems much the same—charismatic, ruthless, removed. Like Zeus sitting atop his throne, throwing occasional thunderbolts. Sherlock has gotten used to thinking of his eldest brother as if he were some distant deity. A name to be invoked or dreaded, but never actually manifesting. Never a _person,_ one who could hug you, miss you, mourn you. Sherlock knows he’s done his brother a disservice in thinking this way, but even now, sitting so close, it’s hard to see Ford Huxley as real.

Perhaps Ford has guessed something of Sherlock’s thoughts, for his expression has changed. It’s not the cold, thwarted look of a moment ago, but something softer, almost wistful. This is not the face of Ford Huxley—who is _not_ real—but Sherrinford Holmes.

“Six months,” he says quietly. “Six months I watched that fucking YouTube footage. You never reached out, not once. If I hadn’t shown up today, when would you have phoned? Ever?”

The anger in Ford’s voice makes Sherlock blink. He should have realized his brother wouldn’t take this well. Ford’s cheerful acceptance of earlier was just a temporary feint.

“You owe me,” Ford says. “The _story,_ Sherlock. It’s the least you can do.”

“That’s not fair,” Mycroft says. “This isn’t about you.”

Ford gives him a glance of real dislike. “Easy for you to say. Sherlock called you.”

Sherlock sighs. He wants to apologize—he seems to do little else lately. He recognizes the manipulation in Ford’s words, but that doesn’t mean the emotions behind them aren’t genuine. Hard to separate the two when it comes to Ford. That his brother would use his grief to get the rights he wants—Sherlock isn’t surprised. With Ford, it always comes back to the stories.

“I might reconsider,” Sherlock says slowly. “But it’s not solely up to me. John would have to agree, and that’s not likely. Not after everything that’s happened.”

“Persuade him,” Ford says. “Don’t pretend you can’t.”

“Just because we’re friends—”

“Oh, come off it. You two are a helluva lot more than friends. You think I mentioned marriage as a joke? I’m not blind, you know. I realize the lovely Neville is a bit of a problem, but—”

“You’re not listening. As usual. _John isn’t gay.”_

“Does his boyfriend know that?” 

Sherlock gets up from the chair. He turns away to the window. “You are not amusing.”

“Good. I’m not trying to be. John and Neville are lovers. I’m sorry if that’s painful to hear, but I really did think you knew.” Ford pauses, as if considering. “Well. Perhaps they’re not screwing right this second. John does seem depressed. But have they shagged in the past? Abso-fucking-lutely. The body language is obvious.”

“Sherrinford,” Mycroft says. “Enough.” 

“Jesus Christ, who are you two trying to fool? John is gay, or at the very least a flexible straight man. I know they say bisexuality doesn’t exist, but I’ve lived in LA for 25 years. Sometimes, I think it’s the only orientation that does exist. John likes men just fine. A couple of times during our meeting downstairs, I thought he was gonna have a go at _me.”_

Sherlock spins around. “Dear God, would you just—” he stops. There’s no point in finishing that sentence. Ford won’t show mercy. He’s the most merciless person Sherlock has ever met. Even Moriarty could learn a thing or two.

But Sherrinford looks strangely sad. He’s gotten up from the chair, approaching Sherlock. 

“Poor baby brother,” he says. “You really didn’t know. How is that possible? _You,_ Sherlock.”

Sherlock shakes his head. He wants to explain to Ford. He wants to calmly enumerate all the obvious examples of John’s inflexible heterosexuality. So many sturdy girlfriends and stalwart declarations. He wants to tell Ford that for once, he’s got it wrong. John Watson isn’t gay. He can’t be. Because that would mean John lied. For three years, since the day they met, John has been hiding the truth from Sherlock. John would never do that. Would he?

“No,” Sherlock says. “It isn’t true. You can’t know. Not from 15 minutes of conversation. Not even you are that perceptive.”

“I am, actually. You may be the world’s most famous consulting detective, kiddo, but when it comes to shagging I’m Hercule fucking Poirot. But if you don’t believe me, ask Mycroft. As if he didn’t check John out back, front, and sideways the minute that you two met? You know how nosy he is. Ask him what’s in those nasty old files of his.”

Sherlock looks at Mycroft. He’s standing by the door, one hand on the knob, as if he would like to escape. But his face is not fearful. Mycroft has his impassive expression on, to look at him you would think they were discussing the weather. But his fingers are clutching that knob hard enough to break it off. 

“Mycroft?” Sherlock says. He doesn’t ask the question—he doesn’t have to, not with Mycroft. Anyway, he can’t say it. To articulate would make this whole mad situation seem too real. 

“You arrogant bastard,” Mycroft says, narrowing his eyes at Ford. 

_“I’m_ arrogant? You’re the one who kept the secret all these years.”

“I was dealing with something sensitive! You come striding in like God Almighty and cock it up inside of an hour. Oh, _je suis fatigue—”_

_“Qu’est-ce qu’on s’en bat les couilles!?”_

“If I hear one more syllable of French I’m murdering both of you and dumping your corpses in the Thames,” Sherlock says. “Believe me when I say that _you would not be missed.”_

His brothers desist, looking peevish.

“I’d be missed,” Ford mutters. “The Academy would have a search party out inside of a day.”

“Shut up, Sherrinford,” Mycroft hisses.

“Both of you shut up,” Sherlock says. “I have to think.” He doesn’t want to hear anything more from Ford or Mycroft. At present, he doesn’t trust anything they have to say. Even if he did, he can’t bear more noise. His head is already swelling up like a balloon, all the vessels filling with blood and pain.

Finally, mercifully, his brothers obey. Sherlock’s eyes dart around the room, but he’s not really seeing it. He’s running through the memory palace, down the well-lit central hallway of John’s wing. He’s passing by a café table—the front table at Angelo’s. Behind it is a bay window showing the nighttime London street. Down the street, half-hidden by shadows, a taxi idles.

_“You don’t have a girlfriend, then?”_

_“Girlfriend, no. Not really my area.”_

_“Oh—right. Do you have a boyfriend? Which is fine, by the way.”_

_“I know it’s fine.”_

_“So you’ve got a boyfriend?”_

_“No.”_

_“Right, okay. You’re unattached. Like me.”_

_“John, I think you should know that I consider myself married to my work, and while I’m flattered by your interest, I’m really not looking for anything.”_

_“No, no. I’m not asking_ —no. _I’m just saying, it’s all fine.”_

John had seemed so nervous, so uncomfortable. Homosexual panic, that had to be the reason. It couldn’t be something else. It couldn’t be that John _was_ chatting Sherlock up, albeit very gently, and when Sherlock rejected him—

Sherlock hurries on down the hall of the memory palace. He looks at a photograph on the wall. It depicts a bamboo steamer box. The lid is partially askew, showing the contents within. Chicken feet, hot and succulent. 

_John sticks one long toe in his mouth and bites down. He chews awhile. He chews and chews._

_“Well?”_

_“It’s—interesting,” John says, still masticating._

_“Give it a chance. You’ll get used to it.”_

_“If I had a quid for every time I heard that—”_

_“Yes?”_

_“I’d have a few quid. You remind me of a mate of mine from sixth form. Always pushing me to try new things.”_

_“Did you enjoy them?”_

_“Some of them.”_

John was smiling when he said it. As if at a very private joke. But his eyes were far away—he was remembering. Something precious, secret. It wasn’t the only time he had the look that night. 

From a console table in front of the chicken feet picture, Sherlock picks up a gun. A Browning 9mm semi-automatic, standard army issue. If you sniff the barrel, you can smell the acrid scent of gunpowder. It’s recently been fired. 

_“A drinker couldn’t have made that shot.” Sherlock doesn’t have to specify which shot._ The _shot._

 _“That was mostly luck.” John pauses a moment. “I also had a very good shooting instructor.”_

_“Which was it, luck or instruction?”_

_“Both, I suppose.”_

_“Why did you shoot?”_

_“Excuse me?”_

_“The cabbie didn’t have a real gun. He wasn’t an immediate threat. If you wanted to distract us, you could have shot his leg or shoulder and had the same outcome. You took the kill shot.”_

_“You always take the kill shot. If you’re going to shoot at all, you shoot to kill.”_

_“Did you instructor teach you that?”_

_“Yes, among other things. We were good friends.”_

_“You seem to learn a lot of things from friends.”_

_“I’m friendly.”_

Sherlock whirls around. He stares into icy blue eyes. Arms crossed, Jools Siviter is leaning against the console table and smirking. 

_“He’s a queer one, your partner. In my day, they’d have chucked him right out of the service for that business with the Yank sniper, but things have changed since the ’70s.”_

Sherlock runs away from him—he doesn’t know how Siviter got here in the first place—and turns down another corridor. This one is darker and more narrow. He doesn’t come here often. It’s not as deep and dark as the oubliettes several levels below, but he’s not proud of this place. He only put it here out of a sense of justice. It looks just like his bedroom except for the bowls of candy on the curio. Halloween candy, chocolate coffins and sugar skulls. Beside those are big white piles that look like sugar. It’s not sugar, of course. This sweetness could kill you. 

He sits down on the bed and closes his eyes. He waits for it, his breath catching, heart pounding. Finally, the touch comes. It’s careful, professional. But it lingers in a less than professional way, far longer than it takes to clean the scratches on his back. As soon as the touch stops, Sherlock misses it. John’s voice comes, steady and calm, like he’s talking to any patient of his.

 _“You should have an STD screening. I can get you in at the Clinic tomorrow morning.”_

_It takes great effort for Sherlock to speak. “Thank you, no. I’ll see to it.”_

_“See that you do, yeah?”_

_“I always do.”_

_“Jesus Christ. How often does this happen?” Now he doesn’t sound so professional. Sherlock hears the shake in his voice. Then he hears John leaving, and he can’t stand that. John must stay._

_“Too many times,” he says. “It’s why I moved from Montague Street. The flat was quite small, but it had too much silence. It pressed in—it wore me down. My skull feeling like it was going to shatter, spew chaos into the world. The cocaine relieves me. When I’m done, I don’t feel the pressure anymore. It sleeps, so I can sleep.” He nearly convulses with the shame the words provoke in him, but he must tell John the truth. As much of it as he can risk telling._

_“I see,” John says, after a pause. “That’s why you wanted a flatmate. Someone to make a bit of noise. I wondered. Knew it wasn’t about the money, I worked that out months ago.” When Sherlock raises an eyebrow at him: “Come on, you reek of posh. You don’t care about money, like someone who’s never had to care. Business has been booming since I started the blog, but that doesn’t really matter, does it? It’s why I have to nag you to deposit the checks from clients. You don’t need a job to afford this place. You don’t need me.”_

_“I have the money for the rent. But I_ can’t _afford it, John. Not by myself. Despite the evidence of this weekend, I’m better since I’ve been here. I’m better with you.”_

_“Fuck, Sherlock! I’m not your sober companion. And that’s not even what you want, is it? You resent everything I did just now. You’re like a nervy racehorse that needs a goat for company.”_

_Sherlock gets up from the bed. He closes the distance between them. He knows it’s dangerous in his current frame of mind. He’s coked out and fucked out, but that buzz buzz buzz is in his brain, the need to take, touch—consume everything and sod the consequences. He’s never wanted John as badly as he wants him in this moment. One wrong movement, and it’s all going to come apart. The illusion of friendship will shatter like a dream. He knows this, but he can’t stop. ___

_“You’re not a goat,” Sherlock whispers. “You’re not background noise.”_

_John looks up at him with his dark blue eyes. “What am I, then?”_

You’re what I want, _Sherlock thinks._ But I know I can’t have you. That’s why I left four days ago. The film was too much, I shouldn’t have watched it. I wanted to tell you everything. My whole sad, secret history. But I couldn’t. If I had, I wouldn’t have stopped. Not until you knew everything—everything. You can’t know, John. How I feel, how much I want you. You would leave, and I can’t bear that. You have to stay. I’ll do anything. Anything at all.

_He comes so near to saying it. For one mad moment, he imagines that John wants him to speak. Something is swimming in those dark blue waters. He has glimpsed it before, a spark that quickly dies. The briefest flash of some beautiful, terrifying thing. John is so easy to read, until he isn’t. Sherlock can’t read him now. He can’t trust his instincts—he wants this too much._

_Sherlock almost kisses him then. It’s a near miss. But for once during this sad, secret week, he controls himself. And if there is disappointment in John’s eyes, it must be at Sherlock himself, for ever losing control in the first place. Not because John wants to be kissed. It can’t be that._

Sherlock backs slowly away from him. He would like to stay here and rewrite history. He would like to kiss John. But the memory palace may not contain fantasies. Only real things are allowed. So he controls himself. He leaves the room and enters another, several doors down. 

It’s empty except for two paintings. This first is of a woman, naked and writhing in ecstasy. Her face is indistinct. Her actual features are fading away, perhaps with time, or perhaps they were never well-drawn to begin with. She is the idea of a Woman, rather than a real person. She has no name, just a description affixed to the frame in a silver oval: _Atropa Belladonna._

Sherlock doesn’t want to look at her anymore. He turns away towards the other painting. It’s actually a frontispiece by William Blake, done in glowing pastel shades, gold and blue and ivory. Queer angelic figures float around the perimeter of the piece, their faces alive with delight. In the center of the painting are words. _Jerusalem: The Emanation of the Giant Albion._

From somewhere above, music softly plays. A choir of heavenly voices, singing words ancient and reverent. They sing of strength and faith. A devotion that is very rare in the modern world. 

_Bring me my bow of burning gold!_  
 _Bring me my arrows of desire!_  
 _Bring me my spear! O clouds, unfold_  
 _Bring me my chariot of fire!_

_I will not cease from mental fight,_  
 _Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand,_  
 _Till we have built Jerusalem_  
 _In England's green and pleasant land._

Sherlock takes the phone from his pocket. He texts quickly and deliberately. **Be there at 2. —S**

He turns around. He walks through the glass doors of Speedy’s, conveniently located on the other side of the room. He takes a seat at their favorite booth. John looks up at him, smiling. Sherlock feels the most intense relief at the sight of him. His heart could burst with it. Even when they start arguing, he’s glad. Arguing with John is better than agreeing with anyone else.

_“I’m not desperate, Sherlock. I’m single.” John’s brows are drawing together, chin stuck out pugnaciously. “It’s called dating. Not all of us have your talent for celibacy.”_

_“It’s not a talent. It’s discipline. Anyone can form the habit.”_

_“Guess what? I don’t want to. Maybe you’re happy playing the violin and romancing your right hand—or whatever it is you do in your bedroom at night. For all I know, it’s bloody origami. But believe it or not, some of us enjoy human contact.”_

_“I’m quite aware of how much you enjoy it. All those girlfriends.” Sherlock’s lip curls._

_“Christ, would you listen to yourself? You sound like you’re discussing some kind of bizarre aberration. It’s normal—human.” John shakes his head sadly. “Fuck, Sherlock! Don’t you get lonely? Don’t you ever just want to touch someone?”_

_John puts a hand on his wrist. Sherlock can feel the warmth of it through his shirt cuff._

_“It doesn’t have to be dangerous,” John says. “Just because two things have gone together doesn’t mean they have to stay together. You and your superior brain—you must see that.”_

_Sherlock gathers his control. He makes himself smile. “Are you offering to fix me up, John?”_

_John looks at him seriously a second longer. Then he pulls his hand back and shrugs. “Inflict you on a female of my acquaintance? I don’t think so. You should shag Molly and put her out of her misery. You know she’s gagging for it.”_

_“Gagging. There’s a word. It describes my reaction to that particular scenario exactly.”_

_John raises an eyebrow. “Maybe you should go to the Shadow Lounge. Find a nice bloke. Or a naughty one. I hear they’ve got both kinds there.”_

_“I have been there,” Sherlock says, looking at John steadily. “More than once.”_

I just outed myself to you, John. What do you think of that? 

_John gives his lovely smile. There’s something so gentle in it—understanding._

_“You know it’s fine,” John says quietly. “I told you so the first night: **It’s all fine.”**_

The last words seem to echo in the small space. They don’t die away but get louder and louder and louder, until they fill the whole room. They drown the music. They flood over everything. Sherlock has to scream to make his thoughts intelligible, even to himself.

WHAT’S FINE, JOHN? WHAT ARE YOU TRYING TO SAY? MY GOD, HAS IT BEEN THAT OBVIOUS ALL ALONG?

The scream seems to shatter something. The otherworldly light of the memory palace fades. Sherlock looks around the lounge of 221-B Baker Street. The headache hasn’t gone away, but it’s a bit more bearable now. As if the scream blew away some of this awful pressure.

Mycroft and Ford have changed locations. Mycroft is on the sofa, Ford in the tufted chair next to it. Mycroft looks calm enough, but Ford is restless and worried. 

“What?” Sherlock says.

“You’ve been standing there for thirty goddamn minutes, staring at nothing.” Ford runs a hand through his hair, disarranging his perfect tousles. “Christ, I thought you were having some kind of seizure. I wanted to call 911, but Mycroft wouldn’t let me.”

Mycroft looks irritated. “I told you, that’s not the number for emergency services here.”

“Screw you,” Ford snaps. “You knew what I meant. What the hell is wrong him?”

“He was in his memory palace,” Mycroft says. 

“Memory palace, are you fucking kidding? Who is he, Hannibal Lecter?”

There’s more to Ford and Mycroft’s banter, but Sherlock ignores them, still thinking. Affecting as his time in the memory palace might have been, it answered nothing for certain. Some of the evidence was suggestive—so much that it amazes Sherlock he didn’t see it before—but nothing was positively proven. There are lots of regular bullets in John’s wing, but no magic ones.

Sherlock slumps, exhausted. Paperwork and painful recollections will have that effect. He looks around the room, not because he expects to find anything, but to give his eyes something to do.

That’s when he sees it. And though Sherlock really didn’t think he had any adrenaline left, he feels another hot burst in his chest. A corresponding throb in his brain. He stares at the stack of _Strand_ magazines by the door, and what is just sticking out from behind them. Slowly, like he’s still moving in the dreamy atmosphere of the memory palace, he walks over to it.

He picks up the red-and-white striped scarf. Neville’s scarf. Slowly, he raises it to his nose. 

The scent is slight, not more than could be expected from fabric making contact with perfumed skin. But Sherlock knows it at once. A spicy citrus aroma, lemon and coriander at first, then notes of lavender and leather, shading to a base of patchouli and cedar. Sherlock also detects a whiff of cannabis, but that’s a sense memory, not actually present in the scarf itself.

Sherlock knows this scent well. He spent weeks trying to place it but never could. It’s the scent that was all over John when he came in from his one night stand 18 months ago. _The_ one night stand: John Watson has girlfriends, not casual affairs. Just this once, he broke pattern. But he did see _her_ again, didn’t he? That missent text Sherlock saw in India—John was texting about going to the Shadow Lounge, _a gay bar,_ how the hell did Sherlock not see it then?

All this time he was looking for a woman’s perfume. No wonder he couldn’t place it. Whatever this is, women don’t wear it. _He_ does. Neville St. Clair, John’s new best friend.

Sherlock starts as he feels a hand on his shoulder. He looks up to see Ford right beside him, still looking concerned. He practically shoves the scarf in Ford’s face. “This scent, what is it?” 

“What?”

“You collect men’s colognes. You’ll know it. What is it?”

After a second’s hesitation, Ford takes the scarf. He has a whiff. “It’s by Gucci. A bit new and brash for my taste, but still—it has its charms.”

“I don’t care how charming it is. What the fuck is it _called?”_

Ford rolls his eyes. “Well, since you ask so sweetly. It’s called Guilty.” He pauses, taking another sniff. “No, wait. It’s not the original one. This is the newer one. Guilty Intense.”

“Guilty,” Sherlock whispers. “I see.” 

Suddenly he is back in the memory palace, down inside the dusty corridor where he keeps the portraits of John’s women. In the middle is the most maddening, that shadowy figure with no features and no name. But now the shadow is glowing like a star, bright enough to burn your eyes out. Name, features, history, everything coming to light: _Neville St. Clair._ John’s lover, much prettier than any of his women. Much more dangerous.

“Sherlock—” Ford reaches out to him again, but Sherlock flinches away. If anyone touches him right now, his head is going to explode into a million pieces.

“Get out,” he whispers. “Both of you. Don’t say a word to me, in any language. Just go.”

Ford shakes his head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.” 

“No, I believe we have overstayed our welcome,” Mycroft says, rising.

 _“Look at him._ Does he look like he can be alone?”

“He’s not a child, Sherrinford. Sometimes you forget that. Come. We’ll go to my club.” Mycroft gets Ford by the elbow. 

Reluctantly, Ford lets himself be led. “That isn’t the one where they don’t let you talk, is it?” 

“No, not that one. This one doesn’t allow women.”

“Fine,” Ford sighs. “I could use a drink. Do they have nitro cocktails at your club?” 

“Do I even want to ask what that is?”

“Molecular mixology, you luddite. They take liquid nitrogen and—”

“No. They don’t have those.” 

“Fucking Belgravia,” Ford says, as Mycroft almost frog-marches him from the room.

Sherlock barely holds on until Mycroft closes the lounge door behind them. He presses his back against the door, sinking to a sitting position. His head is pounding, pounding. The only way to bear the pain is to be still. He doesn’t go to the memory palace, he just sits. The minutes tick by.

He almost doesn’t answer the buzz of his phone. But habit is too strong—the device is in his hand before he realizes. His fingers shake from adrenaline and migraine, the screen is blurry. He has to squint to read the message.

**Everything I have on JW is attached. I suggest perusing it once you have recovered. –M**

John’s file. Mycroft offered it once before. Sherlock thought it was just a mind game, and perhaps it was. A much deeper, cleverer one than he thought. He should remember not to underestimate his brother. Mycroft _is_ Siger’s heir, occasional insecurities notwithstanding.

Sherlock shouldn’t look at it. He knows everything he needs to know. John is _intensely_ guilty.

Of course Sherlock is going to look at it. After all, he’s Siger’s son, too.

With a finger that doesn’t tremble in the least, he taps the attachment icon.


	38. Chapter 38

** John, 5 January 2013 **

_Free as a bird,_  
 _it's the next best thing to be_  
 _Free as a bird_

_Home, home and dry,_  
 _like a homing bird I fly_  
 _as a bird on wings_

_Whatever happened to_  
 _the life that we once knew?_  
 _Can we really live without each other?_

_Where did we lose the touch_  
 _that seemed to mean so much?_  
 _It always made me feel so . . ._

_Free as a bird,_  
 _it’s the next best thing to be_  
 _Free as a bird_

John opens his eyes, sitting up straight on the sofa. He blinks around the dimly lit room, with its white walls and large windows. But only when he sees the Magritte poster over the bed does he remember where he is. Though really, the Beatles music should have clued him in.

It turned out that _Skyfall,_ which has already been out for a couple of months, wasn’t playing in any nearby theaters. So they did the next best thing and went back to Neville’s place to watch _Casino Royale,_ which he’d recently acquired on Blu-ray. 

John likes the film, but he hasn’t been sleeping in, well, forever. Around the time Bond and Vesper Lynd were trading barbs in their shared hotel suite (they wouldn’t shag for a while yet, but even if you weren’t familiar with the story you knew it was coming), John felt his eyelids growing heavy. He tried to stay awake for the poker sequences, which, as Neville noted, are pretty fucking amazing. But before he knows it he’s sitting up on the sofa, yawning, and sees that the telly has gone dark. He looks to his right. Neville is at his desk, typing like mad. 

“Is the movie over?” John says.

“It was over an hour ago,” Neville replies. “I’d have woken you, but you looked so peaceful. The music didn’t wake you, did it? You know I can’t write without it, and I really wanted to get this done.” The entire time that he’s been talking, he hasn’t stopped typing. The cigarette in the ashtray on the desk has turned into a long cylinder of ash. Whatever Neville’s working on, he’s very into it. John gets up from the sofa.

“Don’t worry,” Neville says as John leans over him. “It’s not your blog. It’s mine.”

John peers at the screen. He raises both eyebrows at the headline. _Hey Ford, Stanley Wants His One-Point Perspective Shots Back._ “You’re re-posting it? Why?”

“Because, my dear fellow, I bloody can.” Neville’s red lips quirk in a wicked smirk.

John thinks a moment. “You think Ford won’t try to sue now. He wants my blog too much.”

“He wants _me_ too much.”

“What?”

Neville nods at his phone on the desk. “Check it out. Seven texts since seven o’clock. One thing I’ll say about Ford Huxley, he doesn’t dick around.”

“How the hell did he get your number?”

“Satan has everybody’s number, J. Go on, look. I’m scenting brimstone even as we speak.”

John picks up the phone. He scrolls through the text log. In between non-relevant messages from various friends and contacts (including Stuart the Disney slut), are the ones from Ford. They’re signed, but even if they weren’t he comes through clearly, albeit in abbreviated form. John can hear that mocking, melodious voice as he reads.

**Trapped at Mycroft’s club in Belgravia. Waiters desiccating before eyes. Desperate for cocktail served by someone under 90. Join me?—FH**

**Sorry. Busy. –NS**

**Are not. Skyfall not playing anywhere in central London. I checked—FH**

**Stalker. Ringing my solicitor ASAP. Lesbian, won’t be distracted by your charms. –NS**

**Find me charming, do you? –FH**

**Figure of speech, old man. I find you terrifying. –NS**

**Am a squishy teddy bear. Give us a poke, you’ll see. –FH**

**Huh-uh. Value my various appendages too much. If you’ll excuse me, I’m working. –NS**

**On a Saturday night? Pull the other leg. It’s got bells on. –FH**

**I AM WRITING. GO AWAY. –NS**

**When you’re done blogging off: Shadow Lounge @ 11. I’ll get you into the VIP room. –FH**

**Don’t need you for that. Know the manager and all the bloody bouncers. –NS**

**I bet you do, sweetie. CUL8ER. –FH**

John frowns at the screen. “Are you going?”

“Of course not,” Neville says. When John just looks at him: “Probably not. I mean, he _is_ evil.”

John keeps looking. Neville grimaces. “Since when do you care who I see?”

“Ford Huxley? Are you mad? You’ll be lucky if he just sucks your soul out.”

“Don’t think that’s the kind of sucking he’s interested in,” Neville mutters, and colors a bit. He swipes at one cheek. “Fuck! When was the last time I blushed? Don’t know what’s wrong with me, I feel like I’m sodding 16 again, everything except for the inconvenient erections.” He sighs, looking down. “Those are probably in the queue.”

“You like him,” John realizes. “Fucking hell, Nev.”

“If I liked him,” Neville protests, “would I be reposting this inflammatory blog entry? I’m even adding some new stuff. Have you seen _Heart of Darkness?_ It’s like _Full Metal Jacket_ with RP accents. Fucking Ford.” He scowls at the computer screen and types another sentence or two.

“It’s the digital way of pulling his pigtails. You are going to the Shadow Lounge, aren’t you?”

“If I did,” Neville says, raising his chin, “it would be nobody else’s damn business.”

“Oh yes, it is. You’re going to get yourself hurt. This isn’t like one of your unfortunate Grindr hook-ups. Huxley could do some real damage.”

Neville snorts. “Oh my God, are you serious? When Ford fakes his death on me, I’ll ring you.”

John jerks away from the desk. He goes to the sofa, picking up his jacket. But before he can right the sleeves and put it on, Neville has grabbed his arm.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “That was uncalled for.”

“Sherlock and I aren’t lovers,” John says. “You know that.”

“I know what you are. Everybody knows it. Except you.”

“What are you on about?” he mutters, wrapping himself in his jacket. 

“Heaven give me patience,” Neville says. “Who are you talking to? I’ve watched you stagger around like a grieving widow for three solid months. I’ve watched, and I’ve waited. I thought if I waited long enough that you’d get over him eventually. ‘He can’t be in love with a dead man,’ I told myself. ‘Not forever.’ And maybe I was wrong about that, or maybe I wasn’t, but anyway it doesn’t matter because Sherlock is back from the dead. Of course he is! None of the Holmes brothers are human, are they? You want to talk about soul sucking? He has your soul, and your heart, and your bones—he’s wormed himself into your sodding DNA. Even now, when you’re so angry at him you could kill him, you’re still in love with him.”

John stares at Neville a moment. “I’m not—” 

“You are. You’re so in love, John. And you’re so angry. It scares me when I see how angry you are. Angry enough to do something really stupid, like try to leave him. That’s what you’ve been pondering for the last five days, isn’t it? You’re working out how to go.”

John’s fingers drop from his coat. He has two buttons left, but his fingers have gone numb. He sits on the edge of a sofa cushion, elbows on his thighs, holding his neck in his hands. He can feel his pulse throb against his palm. Neville sits beside him, putting a hand on John’s knee.

“I love you,” he says softly. When John jerks his chin up, blinking at him: “Don’t worry. I’m not _in_ love with you. I used to think I could be, but—I’ve been doing some thinking in the last few days, too. The way you look at Sherlock, even now. The way he looks at you—that’s what got me all pensive. I’ve never felt that way about anybody. Not even Angie, once upon a time. I suppose that’s the tragedy of me.” One corner of Neville’s mouth turns up in a bittersweet smile. “I do love you, though. I don’t want you to make the same awful mistake twice.”

It takes John a moment to form words. “What mistake?” he rasps.

 _“Sherlock is alive._ You have a second chance—how often do those come around in life? Yes, he did something horrible to you. But you have to forgive him. You have to tell him how you feel. Because he’s alive, and that’s a fucking miracle. Are you really going to waste it?”

John stares at the floor. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”

“Sure I do. Who else knows you like I do? Not even Sherlock, and not because you and I have shagged. I know this isn’t just about Reichenbach, or even Irene Adler and the baby. It’s a lot that I’m asking you to give up. Your whole identity. _I’ve been you,_ remember? I was straight once, too. We’re not like the Holmes boys, we weren’t born with much privilege except the heterosexual kind. Lose that, and what do we have?”

“Nothing,” John whispers. 

“Bullshit,” Neville says, leaning his chin on John’s shoulder. “I’m not nothing. Neither are you. You’re awesome, John Watson. Why do you think so many people fancy you? Men, women, even that monster cat of Sherlock’s.”

John presses his lips together against a smile. “Faust hates me. He eats my jumpers.”

“He just wants a taste of you,” Neville whispers in John’s ear. “Why not? You’re delicious.”

John turns his head. This close, Neville looks as good as he does from a distance. Sweet-faced and smiling, with skin like milk. His pale eyes shine like aquamarines. Inside, John feels a rush of real warmth at the sight of him. It has nothing to do with his feelings for anyone else—Neville is not a substitute for Sherlock, not anymore. Nev is just himself, and that is such a lovely thing.

They stare at each other intently for a moment, as the Beatles moan softly in the background.

_I’d love to turn—you—on . . ._

Neville rolls his eyes, smirking. “Thank you, Mr. Lennon. That’s not awkward at all—” he cuts off, like you have to when someone has grabbed your face and kissed you. 

It lasts for a while, the kiss. It starts off soft at first, then gets deeper and rougher. Then soft again, swelling and retreating like a tide. Wetter than one. Neville tastes like cigarettes but he still tastes nice, smoky and a bit sweet, like excellent whiskey. You drink him down like an alcoholic savoring his last glass, a weakness you won’t be giving into ever again, but one you won’t forget. For the rest of your life, you’ll remember the sweetness of him. 

When John pulls back, Neville has gone pink again. He looks down at his jeans, growing rosier. “Inconvenient erection, right on cue.”

“I—I’m sorry,” John said. “I just—”

Neville grabs his hand. “I know. As far as goodbyes go, that was brilliant.” He runs his other hand through his wayward curls, biting his full bottom lip. “That is what it was, wasn’t it?”

“We’ll always be friends,” John says, drawing himself away. “You know that.”

“I do.” Neville sighs. “Bloody Sherlock. Why are so many total cunts so fucking lucky?” Seeing John’s face: “Kidding. He’s—well, he’s Sherlock, isn’t he?” 

“That he is.” John rises. “I should go. It’s past nine.”

“Are you going to talk to him? Really talk, none of this passive-aggressive shite?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“John—”

“I’ll try, Nev. All right? I really will.”

Neville doesn’t look satisfied with this, but he nods. “Okay. Whatever.”

John peers at him. “Are you going to the Shadow Lounge?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“Nev—”

“What?” He gives him a puckish look. “Why not shag a Holmes? All the cool kids are doing it.”

“Sherlock and I aren’t shagging.”

“All in good time, lovey.” Neville stands too. “Tell Sherlock if he tries any more funny stuff, I’m going to shoot him in the face. Harry will get me off—she’s a clever one, your sis.”

“If Sherlock tries anything, you won’t have to. Harry is a better shot than I am.”

“No lesbian like an angry lesbian, is there?”

John grins, then sobers. “If Ford Huxley hurts you—”

“Pow!” Neville spreads his fingers over his face, miming a gunshot. “We’re a violent lot, aren’t we? Holmeses, Moriarties, and other sociopaths had best beware.”

  


* * *

  


John usually takes a taxi back from Nev’s, but tonight he goes on foot. He’s in shape for it: His sojourns around London the last few days have increased his stamina. It’s only a few kilometers back to Baker Street, just the proper distance for a walk and a think. 

He makes his way down the crowded sidewalks, past pubs, shops and flats, deaf to the buzz of conversation and the roar of traffic. He walks and thinks. It’s what makes this journey unique.

During his other walks this week, he’s tried not to think. But ideas have come to him unbidden. Mostly they’re pictures of the desert, the way he remembers it in Afghanistan: barren, rocky, and ringed by cruel mountains. A hostile place, hell on earth for many. But John has found himself longing for it. He never hated Afghanistan. Unlike most of the others, he chose to be there. He liked it, the brutality of it, the simplicity, the freedom. Not freedom _to_ —almost everything was forbidden there—but freedom _from._ You didn’t have to think there. In the desert you could simply be, your identity worked out from the beginning.

He was Captain John Watson of the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers. That’s all he ever wanted. He didn’t ask to get shot, to have his whole life shattered in seconds. He never wanted to come back to London, a place as brutal as Afghanistan but much more complicated.

He never asked for Toby or Mark or Sonny, or even Neville. He never wanted these feelings. The ones that make him something else, not the man he’s always imagined, one so different from his father. James Watson, who by the end was nothing at all. Better to be a doctor and a soldier, even if it kills you. Even a dead soldier is something. 

The years with Sherlock were such a wonderful time. He thought he had it worked out at last, how to live in London and remain himself. He could stand the sameness of the Clinic because it wasn’t his real work. The cases with Sherlock, they were what mattered. Writing them up after, telling the public about the amazing man who walked among them, it was almost as satisfying as the cases themselves. That too-brief time was the closest he’s come in his life to being really at peace with himself. For all of his silent longings, he could have lived that way forever—being with Sherlock, helping him. That was freedom, too. 

But it’s not what happened. Reichenbach happened, Irene Adler happened, and now—

He’s not powerless, even now. He’s poor, scarred, and pushing 40, but he still has options. The application to Doctors Without Borders could be activated any time. He filled it out months ago, he just has to send it. They’d take him no question—he’d pass any psych screening at this point. He could be in the desert by spring. In that brutal, definitive place, he could be himself again.

_You have a second chance—how often do those come around in life? Yes, Sherlock did something horrible to you. But you have to forgive him. You have to tell him how you feel. Because he’s alive, and that’s a fucking miracle. Are you really going to waste it?_

A miracle, right. One that’s nearly ripped him to shreds. He’s glad Sherlock is alive—his heart beats faster every time he thinks of it. But that doesn’t necessarily change his goals. Maybe he won’t assassinate Moriarty in a blaze of glory, but he can still make his life meaningful. He can make himself useful, just not in London. Not with Sherlock, who doesn’t need him. He never did. If he did, he wouldn’t have left. As goodbyes go, faking your death is as firm as it gets.

Neville seems so certain of Sherlock’s feelings, but John isn’t convinced. In the three years he’s known Sherlock, the only real attachment he’s seen him betray is to Irene. Yes, he’s warmer to John than to most people, but that’s not saying much. One can dine all night on significant looks, the odd touch or smile—you can spin a hundred sexual fantasies from such stuff. But in the cold light of morning, you have to look at the facts. 

Sherlock went to India. He made love to Irene there; he got her pregnant. A few months later he faked his death. Then he ran right back to Irene (possibly by prior arrangement?). They lived with the baby as a family for six months. Quite happily, it seems, since in all that time he never made any effort to contact John. Not until Irene was dead did Sherlock consider returning.

He never thought about John. What _he_ was feeling back in London, those sleepless nights and endless days. He never thought, never. He laid beside Irene every night. Every night, they—

John has to stop, clutching a lamp post. He has to close his eyes, take deep breaths against the hot black nausea breaking over him like a wave. He has to stand still for some minutes to keep from vomiting in the gutter. He calls on every resource he possesses to control himself.

 _You can’t hate him,_ he thinks desperately. _You’re not lovers. He told you the very first night that he wasn’t interested. If you didn’t listen that’s your fault, not Sherlock’s. You can’t hate him—you don’t. You love—_

“You all right, laddy?”

John opens his eyes, startled by the touch on his arm. He looks into the concerned blue gaze of a little grey-haired lady. She’s sixty-five if she’s a day but still lovely, pink-cheeked and sweet. She looks like someone’s nice old mum. She could be John’s mum—she’s about the right age. 

John’s first instinct is to snarl or snap. He’s feeling horribly vulnerable, like he’ll fall to pieces any moment. But of course he can’t snap at her. He forces a grin—though he knows it must be ghastly—and says, “I’m okay. Just had a queer turn.” He pats his middle. “Something I ate.”

“Let me get you a cab,” she says, and starts to put her hand out, but he shakes his head.

“Please don’t trouble yourself. I need the walk.” He looks at a nearby street sign. “I’m only a few streets from home. Thanks.”

“All right then,” she says reluctantly. She reaches out a soft, wrinkled hand. She pats him on the cheek. “Take care of yourself, laddy. Go straight home, your wife must miss you.”

“I don’t—” John runs a hand over his sweaty forehead. “You’re right. I’ll do that.”

She gives him a nervous smile—the one of worried mums everywhere—but continues on her way. John feels a mad impulse to go running after her. Buy her a cup of tea, a pint, whatever she likes, if she’ll just touch his face and call him ‘laddy’ again. 

Of course he doesn’t do that. He takes a shuddering breath and keeps walking. He doesn’t try to think anymore—there’s been quite enough of _that_ for one night, thank you.

He sees the sign for BAKER STREET W1 CITY OF WESTMINSTER with relief. Another difference from his other walks—most nights, he hasn’t really wanted to return. But tonight he is so exhausted. He needs to sleep. It’s been a bitch of a day, and he’s not thinking very clearly. He’ll go right up and crawl into bed. He’ll take an Ambien if necessary, he has a few that Clara gave him before he left Hornchurch. Perhaps tomorrow he can make a firm decision.

Talking to Sherlock still seems impossible. As incredible a feat as it would have been when Sherlock was dead. Anyway, what is there to say? The things John would like to say— _I love you, I’ve missed you, please put your hand right there_ —are unsayable. If he ever were to risk his heterosexual privilege, it won’t be for nothing. Not a blank look, and then, even worse, pity. 

_John, I think you should know that I consider myself married to my work, and while I’m flattered by your interest, I’m really not looking for anything._

No no no, a thousand times no. That will never happen (again). He’ll quite literally die first.

Tomorrow, he’ll take another look at that Doctors Without Borders application. Maybe he’ll even send it. The thought creates a small space of peace in the confusion inside him. It’s good to know he has a choice. John can be who he needs to be, with or without Sherlock Holmes. 

When John arrives back at 221, he’s thankful to see that everything appears quiet. There’s a sliver of light under Danica’s door, but no sounds emanate from within. When he mounts the stairs, he sees that the lounge is dark and empty. Perhaps Sherlock went out with his brothers. Maybe he’ll even accompany Ford to the Shadow Lounge—he _has_ been there before. It seems like a strange idea at first, but John gets the feeling it’s not the first time Sherlock has partied with Ford. Who else could he have been staying with in Los Angeles all those years ago? 

John stops with his hand on the banister. Something Mycroft said to him once, when Sherlock came back from his Halloween binge the first year they lived together. Mycroft said Sherlock’s addiction started in California, and it was all his brother’s fault. John thought he was blaming Sherlock himself, but perhaps Mycroft meant something quite different. Who got 18-year-old Sherlock addicted to coke? Who would have the money and connections to make that possible?

John shakes his head and makes himself continue. If it was Ford, then he really is Satan. But it’s not John’s business. He may try to warn Neville off again, for all the good it won’t do. He won’t ask Sherlock about California. He won’t empathize—that’s not his place, it never was. 

_We’re not lovers,_ John thinks. There is a strange comfort in the words. They relieve him of so much obligation. It calms his stomach to realize that he’s not tied to this place. Not to Sherlock, certainly not to Nero. He can leave if he likes. He can be free of the Holmeses and their chaos.

John stops at the top of the landing leading to his room. He stares for a moment when he sees that the door is partly open. Yellow light spills into the hallway.

The light wasn’t on when he left. The door was closed. He made sure of it.

John puts his hand against the door. Slowly, he pushes it further open. His eyes widen, as they take in more chaos than he ever imagined. 

His sole sanctuary has been thoroughly trashed. Every drawer in the chest is open, its contents rifled, some of them hanging over the sides. The closet door is wrenched wide—clothes yanked off their hangers, all the boxes on the shelves pulled down, two overturned. The trunk at the foot of his bed is yawning, vomiting its contents onto the carpet. The drawers of the nightstand, the boxes of summer-weight clothes under the bed, Grandfather Hans’ watch case, all of it cracked, ransacked. Even his bed has been stripped, as if someone were probing the mattress for— _what?_

“What the hell is this?” he says.

Sherlock shrugs. He’s half-reclining among the items scattered on the naked mattress—odd clothes, books, what looks like most of John’s CD collection. Sherlock is holding one of the jewel cases, spinning it absently in his long fingers.

“Sorry,” he says. “I was looking for something.”

“What?” John says. “What in God’s name is wrong with you?”

Sherlock looks up. Those grey eyes are as cold as John has ever seen them. “I’m fine,” he says. “It’s all fine.”

John shakes his head in disbelief. “You’re crazy.”

“And you’re a liar.”

 _“What?_ Where the fuck do you—”

He cuts off as Sherlock chucks the jewel case at him. John fumbles to catch it before it smacks him in the face. 

“That’s what I was looking for. It took a while, you concealed him well. But there he is, hiding in plain sight. That’s your forte, isn’t it? _Camouflage._ You could give lessons.”

John looks at the case. He recognizes it instantly, though he hasn’t listened to it for many years. The rectangle of jagged white lines against a black background is distinctive. 

_“Unknown Pleasures,”_ Sherlock says. “The title is appropriate, don’t you think?”

John keeps staring at the case. The anger inside him has become something else, indefinable. 

“You don’t like Joy Division. I recall distinctly our trip to Baskerville. Remember that dead spot near the moors? We could only pick up one station on the car radio. You turned it off when 'She’s Lost Control' came on. You preferred silence to that. So why keep the CD? You keep nothing unless it’s useful or meaningful. The CD is not useful, so it must be meaningful. But of what? I couldn’t understand at first. Then I looked inside the case. That’s when I found him.”

It takes John a try or two—his fingers are a little numb. But he opens the case. He lifts the disc out. A name is written behind it in distinctive silver marker: TOBY GREGSON.

“He was the difficult one. The rest were in Mycroft’s file. Mark Morstan, the surgeon you lived with when you were 27. He put your name on the deed for his very expensive loft, then took it right back off again. I assume when you left him and joined the military? How heartless, John. 

“Sonny Moran. The records were sketchy but discernible. The US Army would never admit that one of its best men had gotten uncomfortably close to a British doctor, but why else would he give you his spare service weapon? The one you killed three insurgents with. What a fine shooting instructor he must have been! _Friendly_ —but Americans always are. 

“Toby Gregson was absent from the file, but I knew he existed. Your best friend in sixth form, the one who introduced you to all those new and pleasurable things. You didn’t care for some of them—he failed to make you a fan of Joy Division. But there were other things you liked just fine. _Sodomy,_ for instance. You enjoyed that very much. You still do. Why not? Neville St. Clair is lovely and more than willing. But I do hope you’re using some sort of protection. He’s astonishingly promiscuous. His Grindr hook-ups alone—”

 _“Stop it!”_ John cries. “Why are you doing this?” 

Sherlock rises from the bed. He closes the distance between them until he’s looming. Usually John doesn’t notice their height difference, but right now he feels every inch of it. 

“Four male lovers,” Sherlock hisses. “Not hook-ups, lovers. For someone who isn’t gay, that’s an awful lot of cock.” He stares down furiously. “You’ve lied to me. You’ve lied for years.”

John pushes past Sherlock. He stops, leaning a hand on the battered oak chest. The other is on his stomach. He doesn’t feel nauseous, just empty. _Exposed,_ like someone has opened him up and bared his steaming guts to the world. He’s never hated Sherlock before. But right now he does. He’s glad the Browning is in the nightstand on the other side of the room. 

“How dare you,” he rasps. “After what you’ve done, you call _me_ a liar? You faked your death, and you have the nerve to come in here and hurl accusations?”

“That’s completely different,” Sherlock says. “I lied because I had to. I did it to save your life.”

John spins around to face him. “Oh, please. I’ve thought about your so-called sacrifice all week. I’ve thought a _lot._ Just how long did you think those assassins were going to hang about? After you faked the fall, you could have come straight back. You thought Moriarty was dead, so what stopped you? It was _ego._ That mincing psychopath handed you your ass, and you couldn’t take it. You’d rather slink away and shag Irene than deal with the great big bleeding mess you made.”

Sherlock narrows his gaze. “I knew you were jealous,” he says. “You should see your face. You’re greener than the wallpaper.” 

“That’s not jealousy, you git. It’s fucking nausea over the idea of anyone sticking his dick in that insane bloody bint. _Vagina dentata,_ Sherlock. Ever heard of it?”

“No, he’s not jealous _at all,”_ Sherlock says, addressing an imaginary audience. “It’s not as if he’s spent the last three years copulating with every moderately attractive woman in London. Dental hygienists. Legal secretaries. Sodding actuaries, John. _You made me talk to them.”_

“You fucking snob! If you’d made any effort—”

“Why? You never did. Quick, tell me all their names. What color eyes did Jenny have? What breed of dog was Melissa partial to? I can remember, why can’t you?”

Sherlock is looming again. “You don’t keep much, but what you do keep is suggestive. Toby’s isn’t the only love token. _Lynyrd Skynyrd_ is Sonny’s, unless you’ve been buying used CD’s in Micanopy, Florida. The Manchester United jersey is Mark’s—it’s too big for you, and in any case you’d never root for the Red Devils. That caduceus tattooed on your shoulder is from Mark, too. You have mementos for every man, but not one for a woman. Not even Lucy Ferrier, and you lived with her for three years. That says everything, doesn’t it?”

He leans close, getting right in John’s face. “You’re not straight. You’re not flexible. You are seriously _bent._ You’ve spent years scheming to hide the truth. But now I see, don’t I? You’re gay, and you’re a coward. I don’t know which one shocks me more.” 

John digs his nails into his palm. He wants to hit Sherlock so badly. He can see it, his fist smashing into that sneering face. Getting his hands around that white neck and squeezing. But he won’t. Killing Sherlock when they just got him back, John might regret it later. _Might._

He controls the rage. He takes a breath. When he speaks, he’s proud of how calm he sounds.

“Why do you care? Our personal lives have nothing to do with each other. As far as I can tell, you only like sex when it’s paid for. But I never asked about the rent boys. I never interrogated you about Irene. Why can’t you do me the same favor? _Ego._ You can't stand that there was something about me you couldn't deduce. Ford figured me out in two minutes, but not you. Mycroft knew, Neville knew, bloody Irene knew. The Great Detective, baffled again. And _I_ didn’t have to show you my tits.”

“I trusted you! I had faith in what you told me. That was my mistake: believing in you.”

“I believed in _you,_ you selfish twat! What did that get me? Six months of hell. Well, guess what? I’m not taking your shit anymore. You can take your house, and your money, and those two mad wankers you call brothers and cram it right up your narrow ass. I’m getting out of here. I’d rather get shot in Afghanistan than deal with your insanity one more fucking minute.” 

John heads for the door. But before he can take two steps, he’s jerked roughly back.

Sherlock shoves him against the wall, pinning him with an arm. “You think this is over?”

“Get the fuck off me—!” John tries to twist away, but Sherlock is a ruthless bastard. He’s using his arm to put pressure on John’s collarbone. It doesn’t hurt unless John tries to struggle—then his bad shoulder hurts like a bitch.

“This is _not_ over,” Sherlock says. 

John glares up at him. “Let me go. I mean it.”

Sherlock actually smiles. “I don’t think— _oof!”_ He doubles over, as you do when someone has kneed you right in the gut. Sherlock goes white, fighting for breath. 

John straightens, frowning. Not from worry—disappointment. He’d been trying for the groin. But knocking the wind out of him will have to do.

“I told you to let go,” he says, turning for the door again. “Next time you’ll— _agh!”_

He puts a hand out, breaking his fall as the floor rushes upwards. Sherlock has gotten him by the ankles, jerking him off his feet. John tries to kick him in the face, and they both go tumbling.

They roll over, first Sherlock on top, then John. John tries for the groin again, and cries out as Sherlock lands a punch to his right kidney. Then Sherlock is gasping, as John headbutts him in the nose. It’s not as sound a blow as he would have liked—Sherlock does keep squirming—but his opponent appears dazed if not bloodied. 

John tries to take advantage of this and get up. But Sherlock does some weird liquid move that is probably judo and definitely sneaky, and lands on top. They glare at each other, nose to nose.

“I can smell him all over you,” Sherlock hisses. _“Guilty,_ John. Guilty guilty guilty!”

John stares, wondering if that headbutt was harder than he thought, when Sherlock presses on. “If you’re going to shag random bloggers, at least choose one with decent taste in cologne.”

“I’m not shagging Neville,” John pants. “Get the fuck off!”

“You’re not fooling me. Never again,” Sherlock says, not budging. “Neville St. Clair, God! Why not just snog a public loo? It would be more sanitary—”

_“I’m not shagging Neville St. Clair.”_

“Are you in love with him? You’re a bloody fool! He’s screwing everything that—”

“I’M NOT IN LOVE WITH NEVILLE. I’M IN LOVE WITH YOU, YOU FUCKING IDIOT.”

For a moment the room is silent, except for the sound of their labored breathing.

Sherlock stares at him, blinking rapidly. 

John lets his head fall back against the carpet. Sherlock isn’t holding him down anymore, but suddenly he doesn’t have strength to get up. 

“It’s always been you,” he whispers. “You you you you you. What did you think, Sherlock?”

Sherlock leans back on his heels, saying nothing. Then John does get up. He has to.

“Right,” he sighs. “That’s the lot. You have all the secrets now, I hope you’re satisfied. I’m gay, and I did sleep with Neville once, though we’re not currently doing it. Oh yeah, and I am in love with you, have been since the beginning, and I know you don’t care because you’re not looking for anything and I’m not your type anyway. So if you’ll excuse me, I’m just going to crawl in a hole and die of embarrass—”

He stops as his hand is seized. A warm grip closes around him, holding so tightly it hurts.

John looks down, where Sherlock remains kneeling on the floor. He sees the look on his face. 

John’s heart stops. Then it starts beating again, rapidly. Blood roars in his ears, but he can still hear Sherlock’s words. That low, choked whisper.

“Stay,” he says. “Please stay. You have no idea—” Sherlock cuts off. “I mean, you must know that I—” He stops again, looking enraged at his own incoherence. He shakes his head, defeated. 

“Fucking idiot,” John says, and kisses him. 

As first kisses go, it’s awkward at the beginning. The angle is bad, John having to bend down, stretching his neck until it hurts. But then Sherlock rises in one fluid movement, his big warm hands are on John’s face, he’s walking them backwards, pressing him into the wall and— _yes._ That’s it. The kind of kiss they should be having, warm and wet and a bit rough, Sherlock bites at John’s lips like he wants to devour him. Sherlock tastes rather raw—the headbutt must have made better contact than John realized—but it’s not a bad thing at all, copper mixed with the man’s essential spice, like bloody oranges. 

John could taste him all night, but Sherlock pulls back, breaking the kiss. 

“Three years,” he says, looking angry and dazed at once. “Three _years.”_

“No time to waste then,” John says, and starts pulling at the waistband of Sherlock’s trousers. He is repaid with a slightly shocked look.

“Are you—are you sure?” 

“Three fucking years,” John says. “Help me with these bloody buttons.”

Once he’s over the initial shock, Sherlock’s response is enthusiastic. Only he’s more interested in John’s clothes than his own, yanking John’s arms out of his jacket and tossing it away. He pulls John’s jumper over his head so fast it stings. He undoes the buttons on John’s trousers and shirt, getting them off as lightning speed, and makes short work of his socks and shoes, adding them to the chaos of clothing on the carpet. Then he seems to get distracted, running his hands down John’s bare chest, his gaze fixed, focused, like he’s memorizing everything.

“Not much you haven’t seen before,” John says, feeling self-conscious. Sherlock is mostly still dressed, and John is down to pants and an awkward expression.

“Not like this.” Sherlock sounds far away. “You’re just like you were on Mykonos. Amazing.”

“What? We never—” But Sherlock is kissing him again, a gentler kiss this time, lips exploring the curve of John’s neck as his fingers rove over John’s torso, moving downwards. They tease the tender flesh of John’s belly for just a moment before hooking into his pants and pulling them all the way down. Sherlock drops to his knees. He looks up at John with a thoughtful frown.

“I’m not in practice at this,” he says. “But one never really forgets, does one?”

He cups John’s balls gently, leaning in to taste the throbbing vein on the side of John’s rapidly swelling cock. John gasps, partly from the sensations, and partly from the realization that it’s Sherlock ( _Sherlock!_ ) causing them. It’s enough like his fantasies that he experiences a moment of true confusion—is he dreaming? He must be. Five minutes ago they were screaming at each other, an hour ago he was certain he could never tell Sherlock how he feels, a week ago Sherlock was dead— _dead,_ and now—

“I can’t—I can't,” he whispers. _I can’t believe this, I know it was my idea but how the hell did we get here? It took forever—three fucking years—and now it’s all happening so fast._

“We can do what we like.” Sherlock grins. _“Everything.”_

John gasps again, as Sherlock starts sucking him in earnest. 

This part isn’t like his fantasies. Fantasy Sherlock was too much like Mark Morstan, posh and controlling, sexy in a calculating way. Nothing is calculated in the real Sherlock’s movements, he’s sucks cock like a hungry man ravaging a piece of meat, like it’s something he loves to do, has to do. As he works, he’s making little growls of satisfaction that are so fucking hot John could come just from listening. He’s trying not to come, he wants this to last, they’ll have other times but never another first time, so he concentrates on football scores, the commercials he saw on telly this morning, pictures of fuzzy bunnies, anything other than the raw red pleasure pooling in his gut, that hot hungry mouth devouring him.

Finally the pleasure is becoming too much, building and building until it’s painful, but still he won’t jump over the cliff, he wants it to last, three years he’s waited, he wants this to go on a little longer, just another minute, two minutes—

Sherlock grabs John’s ass and pulls him closer, making him fuck his face, one-two-three deep thrusts into sucking heat and John is coming, a climax that starts behind his eyes and washes all the way through his body in a bright tide. He can hear himself uttering a string of nasty words in a breathless voice. A filthy, heartfelt prayer to whatever happy gods made that orgasm possible. 

It’s a moment before he can open his eyes. John sees Sherlock stand, smirking like the devil.

“Sorry,” he says. “As I said, I’m out of practice. Next time will be better.”

“Shut up,” John wheezes. “Any better and I’ll be brain dead.” He runs his hands down his face. “Jesus Christ. You didn’t learn that at Eton.”

“No,” Sherlock says. “Los Angeles, actually. Isn’t that the point of a gap year, to learn what they don’t teach you in school? Viewed that way, I had the most successful gap year ever.”

John looks at him. Sherlock must see the question in his face because he leans in, running slow, pensive fingers down John’s cheek. “Viewed any other way, it was a fucking disaster.”

“What happen—?” but the words are stopped by a kiss. He knows it’s a distraction but he can’t help leaning into the warmth of it. He still can’t quite believe it, that kissing Sherlock is allowed.

Sherlock pulls back, looking into John’s eyes. His own are cool—veiled. “Another time, John. My sad story can wait.” His gaze warms as he smiles. “But knowledge is never wasted, as you’re about to discover.”

He pushes him gently towards the bed. Once John is there Sherlock follows, undoing his clothes. 

When Sherlock is down to nothing but skin, John blinks. He blinks again.

“Of course,” he says. “You’re a tall, rich, gorgeous genius. Why not have a great big cock?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Nature didn’t exactly leave you bereft.”

“Generous normal is all very well, but this is fucking ridiculous.” John says, eyeing Sherlock’s crotch. “Explains a lot, though. If I were walking around like that, I’d be an arrogant sod, too.”

Sherlock bends over him, nuzzling John’s neck. “Think of it this way. You’re going to benefit from my—arrogance—in all sorts of ways.”

“About time—yes, kiss me there, that’s nice—but don’t expect deep-throating. I’m not a bloody boa constrict—” John gasps as Sherlock nips at a sensitive area on his throat. 

“Snakes don’t unhinge their jaws,” Sherlock murmurs. “It’s a matter of flexibility.”

“I’m not that flexible. It’s been established.”

“Noted.” Sherlock pushes John backwards on the mattress. “Turn over.”

“Just a minute, Bossy. Who said you get to top?”

“You are _that_ flexible. I’ve seen pictures of Sonny Moran. Brutal top doesn’t begin to describe.”

“Hmmph. Looks can be deceiving. But that’s not the point: It’s nice to be asked.”

Sherlock kneels on the mattress, looking mulish. John reaches out, running a teasing finger down Sherlock’s cock, which has become so erect it looks painful. At his touch it strains towards him, needy and ready. “Come on,” John says. “You were well brought up. What do we say?” 

Sherlock sighs. “Please, John. May I fuck you?” 

“Yes,” he says, after pretending to consider. “Carefully. I’m out of practice, too.” He’s only partly joking. It’s been 18 months since he’s done anything like this, and even then it wasn’t with anyone hung like Sherlock. (Sonny, that ruddy giant, wasn’t hung like Sherlock.) 

“I won’t hurt you,” Sherlock says, looking serious. “Never.”

 _Never again, you mean,_ John thinks but doesn’t say. He’s tired of recriminations; He just wants to get laid. Anyway, a few more orgasms like that last one, and he’ll forgive almost anything.

So he just says, “Supplies are in the right nightstand.”

“I know.” Sherlock stretches to get them. “I saw them earlier.”

“Uh-huh. I hope you’re not the type to pass out after sex. My room is fucked, Sherlock.”

“I’m aware. I’ll attend to it later,” Sherlock says, rooting through the nightstand.

John wonders if Sherlock is always this manageable when sex is on the table. If so, it’s going to be a brave new world out there, boys and girls. John may never have to clean another body part out of the fridge. Thrilling prospect—almost better than the orgasms.

Sherlock slips the condom on and turns around, holding the bottle of lube. “Turn over.”

This time John obeys, and is rewarded with clever, slippery fingers massaging his shoulders. “You’re quite tense,” Sherlock says.

“Hmm. Wonder why. Nothing has happened this week.”

Sherlock pauses a moment, working at a particularly stubborn knot in John’s left deltoid. “This is a new bottle of lube,” he observes. 

John nods, sighing as Sherlock’s fingers dance their way down his spine. His brain his buzzing pleasantly, afterglow from his orgasm as well as the new spurts of love hormones being released by the massage. He’s half-hard again.

“The bottle in my room is almost empty.”

John freezes. But Sherlock keeps working, heading downwards to the ticklish lower obliques. 

“I found it several days ago. At first I thought you must have had a girlfriend while I was gone.” When John shakes his head slowly: “Of course not. There weren’t any condoms, and I know you’re careful about contraception. Tonight, it occurred to me that it might have been another kind of company you were keeping. I pictured you with Neville St. Clair, having him raw, in _my_ bed, and I—” Sherlock’s fingers dig too hard into John’s flesh. “Well. Look around. You can see my reaction.”

“For the last time, I am not shagging—”

“I believe you. Still, it does beg the question of exactly what you _were_ doing there.” 

John doesn’t answer, just buries his face in the mattress so Sherlock can’t see him blushing. 

Sherlock’s hand roams over the iliac crests, those tender arches just above the buttocks. He bears down a bit. “You were touching yourself in my bed. Weren’t you?”

A finger slips between the cleft of his cheeks. It rims the pucker of John’s hole, applying delicious pressure. But it doesn't go in. He _needs_ it to go in. 

“Sherlock—” 

“Answer the question.” Two fingers now, slick and teasing.

“Yes, you bloody sadist. I was touching myself. Every night. For weeks and weeks. Happy?”

Sherlock must be, because those fingers press inside of John. He gives a grateful shiver. They explore him, going deeper, preparing him. It’s almost enough pressure. _Almost._

Sherlock knows it’s not enough. Bastard. “What were you thinking of? Tell me.”

“You,” John pants. Then he moans—there’s that third digit. Three fingers pressing against his tender inner walls. Sherlock crooks his fingers, honing in on that one spot, the oh-so-sensitive membrane which hugs the prostate. He prods it gently, and John shudders all over.

“Sherlock, please—”

“What did you think? What did you _see?”_ There’s a desperate note in that calm voice, as those fingers keep milking John’s prostate. It feels like a hand stroking his secret cock, one that’s far up inside of him. It feels so good he could cry. He will cry in a moment, and won’t give a damn as long as Sherlock doesn’t stop. If John keeps talking, maybe Sherlock will keep going.

“Y-you,” John manages. “I had you. Or you had me. We did it in every room of this house. All over London. I—I fucked you in your bed. You had me on our table at Speedy’s. We did it in the lab at St. Barts. Against the wall of the alley by Angelo’s. _Everywhere,_ Sher—” he stops, biting the mattress to keep from shrieking. He’s just come so hard he’s seeing spots.

Sherlock removes his hand, but John still shivers a bit—aftershocks.

“Christ, John,” Sherlock whispers. “I never thought . . . ” he trails off like he doesn’t know how to finish. He kisses John’s shoulder instead. John feels that big, throbbing erection pressing into his ass. “I have to have you now. I’ll try to be careful.” 

“I’m okay.” If John isn’t ready now, he never will be. He reaches back, finding Sherlock’s hand and squeezing it. Tears are pricking his eyes, but he blinks them back. He _is_ okay.

Sherlock works his way in. He goes slowly, inch by inch, but there are lots of inches. He’s bigger than anyone John has been with, but John doesn’t flinch. Part of it is being loose, wet, fully prepared. The other is that it’s Sherlock ( _Sherlock!_ ) filling him up, so much that it does hurt. But it’s better than the best of John’s fantasies—though it hurts, _because_ it hurts. Warm pain, not cold dreams. Sherlock gets deeper, his thrusts gentle but devastating, and John sees how wrong his fantasies were. They never came close to the shattering reality of the man. 

_So good we waited. Never could have survived losing this. Not six months. Not six days—_

John’s hazy thoughts splinter as Sherlock gives a couple of sharp thrusts. He’s close to coming, you can tell from his breathing, and his control isn’t as good. He thrusts again and John gasps.

“Sorry,” Sherlock pants. “I’m trying—”

“Do it,” John says. “Do whatever you want. Fuck me, hurt me, I don’t care.” He pushes back against Sherlock, impaling himself further on that huge cock. Sherlock cries out like he’s been gutshot, and comes at last. John can’t have another orgasm so soon, but feeling Sherlock come is the next best thing. A different kind of pleasure, one equally real. 

When Sherlock slowly withdraws from him, John barely flinches. He’s too wrung out, even for aftershocks. He hears the mattress creak as Sherlock gets up, disposing of the condom. Then he gets back in bed, putting his arms around John, resting his chin in the crook of John’s neck. John sighs. He can still feel Sherlock inside him. That has nothing to do with sex. Sherlock has been there a long time. Three years.

John did intend to nag Sherlock about the destroyed bedroom, but instead he just pushes the CD’s and books that have been digging into his leg onto the floor. He manages to disengage from Sherlock, grab the quilt and pull it over both of them. “Light,” he says, and Sherlock reluctantly lets him go long enough to kill the bedside lamp. 

Then he’s right back, curling his long body around John’s. John isn’t a cuddler, but he doesn’t mind at all. Sherlock can be a boa constrictor if he likes. Right now, in this bed, in Sherlock’s arms, John has never felt freer.

****

  
** END OF BOOK FOUR **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's time for more commentary! Lots of pictures and a few deep thoughts:
> 
> [Author Notes at Dreamwidth](http://chase820.dreamwidth.org/322557.html)
> 
> [Authors Notes at Livejournal](http://chase820.livejournal.com/332045.html)
> 
>  Links to other notes can be found at the end of chapters 5, 12, 20, 23, 28, 29, 32, 42, and 47.


	39. Chapter 39

_Is it for now or for always,_  
 _The world hangs on a stalk?_  
 _Is it a trick or a trysting-place,_  
 _The woods we have found to walk?_

_Is it a mirage or miracle,_  
 _Your lips that lift at mine:_  
 _And the suns like a juggler's juggling-balls,_  
 _Are they a sham or a sign?_

_Shine out, my sudden angel,_  
 _Break fear with breast and brow,_  
 _I take you now and for always,_  
 _For always is always now._

_—Philip Larkin, “Is it For Now or for Always”_  


  


**BOOK FIVE: 6-7 January 2013**

  


* * *

  


** John, 6 January 2013 **

_Yesterday_  
 _All my troubles seemed so far away_  
 _Now it looks as though they’re here to stay_  
 _Oh I believe in yesterday_

_Suddenly_  
 _I’m not half the man I used to be_  
 _There’s a shadow hanging over me_  
 _Oh yesterday came suddenly_

John snatches his mobile from the floor. “What?” he growls.

“Well. Good day to you too, sunshine.” Neville sounds disgustingly alert and cheerful for—John squints at his bedside clock—10:19? Fuck. 

“Sorry,” he says. “Didn’t know it was so late. What is it?” He groans, sitting up. He looks around his messy room, blinking confusedly before last night starts filtering into his brain. 

All of last night. John jerks his head downwards, taking in the long lump lying beside him. Sherlock is still asleep, swathed as tight as a mummy. If mummies were ever embalmed in Mrs. Hudson’s tatty sheets with the big yellow daisies. Nev’s ringtone didn’t stir him at all. Not so shocking, given his exertions of a few hours ago.

Four times. They did it four times if you count the blowjob, which John supposes he must. Twice before midnight and twice sometime after—John isn’t clear on the time, just has a vague, searing recollection of being woken up by hot hard hands all over him, a hot hard cock in his—

“—so I think we ought to do something about it, don’t you?”

“Something about what?”

“The _birthday,_ J.”

“What? Whose?”

“My God, man, have some coffee already. Sherlock’s bloody birthday.”

John gets out of bed, shivering a little at the cool air on his bare skin. Holding his phone up to the light of the window, he squints at the date on the screen: 6 January 2013.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “I forgot.”

“Me too,” Neville says. “But the fans haven’t. Have you looked in the forum? _So_ many GIFs and emoticons. And the manips—you don’t want to see the manips. There’s one where you and Sherlock have been made into Jake and Neyteri from _Avatar,_ and—”

_“What?”_

“It’s actually very well done. You make a surprisingly hot alien lady. Though I don’t think your tits would be quite that—”

“Stop. I beg you.” 

Neville stops, and John uses the blessed silence to gather his wits. “I don’t understand. How do they even know what day it is?”

“‘The Blue Carbuncles,’ remember? Bioterrorism in Essex? Sherlock said something about an interesting case being the best birthday present.”

“Christ, that was one line of dialogue. He didn’t even mention the exact date.”

“The fans found the exact dates of all those spotty deaths in Danbury. Then they looked back at the time markers in your story—days of the week and so forth—and did the math.”

“That’s insane.”

“That’s fandom. You should be flattered.” Neville giggles. “Your tits look great. _Blue,_ but—”

“I’m hanging up now.”

“Wait! We haven’t discussed this. What are we going to do about the forum?”

“Kill it. Kill it with fire.”

“Now you’re being a bad sport. There are manips of me, too. Just one or two, but still. I don’t look like Mr. Tumnus, do I? When you see me, is _satyr_ what comes to mind?”

John pinches the bridge of his nose, sighing. “Your cock isn’t that big.” 

“Who are you talking to?” Sherlock’s voice comes from beneath several layers of sheets.

“All kidding aside, we have to do something,” Neville says. “Things are getting weird. The manips are just the beginning. The fans are talking about some kind of memorial.”

“Is that Neville? What does he want?” Sherlock is sitting up. John waves a hand at him.

“What can we do?” he says to Nev. “Let them build their bloody shrine if it pleases them.”

“—right out in front? Seriously? You’re comfortable with—”

“Sure.” John only catches about half of this. He’s far more intent on the long, naked body that has just pressed up against him. “Why not?”

“If he were really dead, I might agree,” Neville says, after a brief pause. “But Sherlock isn’t. You let the fans whip themselves into a frenzy today and then bring back their hero tomorrow, it’s going to make everything harder.”

“Hang up,” Sherlock says. Firm, warm hands are sliding down John’s torso. 

“I don’t know when he’s coming back,” John says, trying to focus.

 _“Today,”_ Neville says. “It has to be today. It’s his birthday, he’s 33, for fuck’s sake. Just like Jesus after the Crucifixion. It’s all fitting and biblical and shit. Talk to him.”

“Hang. Up.” Sherlock’s words are insistent, his touch moreso. One hand has closed around John’s cock, taking unfair advantage of his morning erection. John’s brain is growing fuzzy again, but not from sleep. 

“Stop,” John says. 

“No,” Sherlock says. 

“Stop what?” Neville says.

John sighs impatiently. “I was talking to Sherlock.” The man in question nips at that sensitive spot on John’s neck, just under his ear. It’s already tender from too much attention last night, and the heat from the bite sends an arrow of pleasure straight to John’s groin. 

He yelps. “Fuck!”

“Exactly,” Sherlock says, with another stroke of John’s now-throbbing cock.

“Sherlock,” John sighs.

“Back to bed,” Sherlock says. “I’m not done with you.”

“What did he just—” Neville stops. “Oh my God. _Are you two snogging?”_

The shock in Neville’s voice is enough to clear John’s head. “What? No.”

Sherlock grabs the phone. “Yes. Fuck off.” He throws the phone across the room.

John scowls at him. “Rude.”

“Sociopath.” Sherlock shrugs. “One thing I learned in rehab: Crazy people are the best shags.”

Before John can think of how to reply to this, Sherlock has marched him back to bed. 

He’s pushed onto the pillows, protesting. “Thanks for that. Now Nev knows.”

“Good.” Sherlock has no right to look this damn great, not first thing in the morning. Bedhead gorgeous and smirking. The play of muscles on his back as he stretches to the nightstand for the condoms and lube makes one feel a bit lightheaded. John’s anger over the phone is drifting away like a dream. That should worry him—it _does._

But then Sherlock is back, fixing John with his eyes. They glow in the light from the windows, as his clever fingers roll a condom over his rapidly swelling cock. His other hand skates down John’s body, leaving a trail of heat. This is like being thralled by a warm-blooded vampire, one who doesn’t mind sun in the least. But he _is_ a vampire, cunning and carnivorous. 

John tries to sit up, but Sherlock pushes him back down. “Lie still.”

“Let me shower first. I must stink like a—”

“You smell fine. You smell like you. Lie still.” Sherlock’s gaze sweeps over John’s body. “This is something I’ve wanted to try for a long time, but my partners have been too tall. You, however—” his eyes flash with satisfaction. “What a lucky thing you’re so small, John.”

“I’m 5’7. That’s only an inch below average height.”

“You’re 5’6. The average height for a man in the United Kingdom is 5’9.” Sherlock flexes his long body. “But you’re just the right size for this.”

“For what? What unspeakable perversity are you plotting, Sherlock?” 

“You’ll see.” Seeing John frown: “It is my birthday.”

John lies still, muttering, “Can’t ask for a blowjob like a normal bloke. Oh no.”

“Later, perhaps,” Sherlock says, smiling. “I am curious about your technique.” 

Then he goes serious, silent. He rolls his neck on his shoulders, stretching his arms like a yogi warming up. Then, all at once, he leans forward, covering John’s body with his own. He licks John’s neck, then bites down again on that tender spot. It’s a more serious bite than the other one, and John shudders. 

“You like some pain with your pleasure,” Sherlock whispers as he strokes John’s cock, now so heavy and needy, oozing drops of pre-cum. 

_Of course I do. I’m shagging a sociopath._ John doesn’t say it: He doesn’t really believe it. Sherlock isn’t crazy. He’s just—

John cries out, as his left nipple is bitten almost hard enough to draw blood. Before the echo of the sound has died away, Sherlock has done the same to the right nipple. He slides downwards to John’s belly, its muscles gone taut with strain.

“You’re too tense,” Sherlock says. “This won’t work if you don’t relax.”

“Tell me what you’re bloody planning.”

“You have to trust me. That’s the point.” Sherlock leans closer, until they are nose-to-nose. “Do this for me.”

 _Please, will you do this for me? This phone call is my note. It’s what people do, don’t they?_

John blinks and forces himself back from the dead grey concrete of St. Barts.

That silvery gaze is boring into him. “Do you trust me?” 

“Yes.” Not even Sherlock could have heard that hesitation. It was only the fraction of a second. He does trust him. Sherlock won’t hurt him.

 _Sure,_ a voice says. It’s his sister’s voice, brash and biting. _St. Barts was a long time ago—six whole months. You’re past all that, yeah? A few orgasms, and you two are right as rain._

John suppresses a scowl. Harry thinks she knows everything, but she doesn’t. He does trust Sherlock. More importantly, he wants him—and the orgasms. John has earned them.

“Yes,” he says again. “Do as you like.”

Sherlock gazes at him a second longer, his face unreadable. Then he takes John by hips and pulls him close, so his ass is resting on Sherlock’s thighs. As Sherlock sits back on his heels, John wraps his legs around Sherlock’s waist to ease some of the pressure on his spine. 

Sherlock nods. “Yes. Just like that.” 

He picks up the bottle of lube, wetting his fingers and slipping them inside John. At first John’s inner muscles resist—he can’t seem to help it. But Sherlock is expertly patient, stroking John’s cock with one hand while the other preps him with two fingers, then three. John’s cock strains and weeps at the renewed attention. His inner muscles begin to relax, growing looser, slicker. Desire eases the tension in John’s belly, the doubts in his mind. 

He gives a low sigh, and Sherlock seems pleased. “Now we’re ready.” 

He takes his fingers away, and John misses them. But the loss doesn’t break the fuzzy buzzing in his brain. That heady rush of Oxytocin—sweeter than heroin, and a lot more dangerous. They don’t call it a love drug for nothing. People ruin themselves over it every day. How much would you sacrifice for this feeling? What hurts and betrayals could you forgive?

But John is too far gone to be philosophical, as Sherlock thrusts inside. The pressure is too much at first, just as it was last night. But John knows what to expect now, exactly what it takes to let Sherlock in. He breathes hard, relaxing as much as he can. Trusting. 

Sherlock doesn’t thrust deep. Instead he lowers John’s legs, and John gasps. The new angle changes the pressure in a wonderful way, so even though Sherlock hasn’t gone deep the result is just as intense, the head of his big cock hitting that soft, yielding spot right over John’s prostate. Hitting it again and again, until John is clawing at the bed, babbling nonsense. It feels so good it hurts and that’s the very best feeling, he’s going to come any minute and it will be amaz—

Sherlock withdraws. John’s eyes fly open. “What the hell are you—”

He stops, eyes widening, as he sees Sherlock lean down, arching his neck so his lips can close around John’s cock. Sweet, sucking heat, and then—fucking hell—Sherlock is thrusting again, his lithe body seeming to bend in half as he fucks and sucks John at the same time. 

He can’t thrust in all the way—even Sherlock isn’t that flexible. But he doesn’t need to, not when the angle lets him hit that sweet spot within. He sets a strange, delicious rhythm: He pulls out and sucks John, then takes his mouth away as he pushes back in. John’s never felt anything like it before. Nobody’s ever tried this. Not even Mark Morstan, with his _Gay Kama Sutra_ and exotic lubes. The sensation is unbelievable, being sucked off and firmly fucked, it feels so good it’s frightening. John is desperately recalling every single football stat he has ever learned, not to make this last but to put off the approaching orgasm. The red waves of pleasure are already too much, what’s it going to be like to climax? It’s going to drive him crazy, Sherlock is driving him crazy, he’s not a sociopath but he’s so dangerous, John never should have let him in, never—

The orgasm spirals down, down, into the very core of him. The world spirals with it, like his whole existence is draining into nothing, caught in a black pit of bliss from which he’ll never escape. John comes with hardly a sound, but inside he’s sobbing. 

He hasn’t even begun to climb out of the abyss before Sherlock is bending him back, back, until John’s knees are almost touching his shoulders. His ass is angled straight up, totally open and exposed. John has never been able to get into this position easily, but right now his joints bend like they’ve been oiled. He’s as limp as a doll from that orgasm, but he’s not numb like one. 

He can feel everything that Sherlock is doing, his nerves so raw that it all seems twice as real as normal. He feels the softness of the worn mattress underneath him, as he watches Sherlock go up on his toes and fingertips, changing the position yet again. He feels Sherlock’s slickened grip as he grabs John’s ankles, opening his legs wider. He feels Sherlock thrust in, and it’s like being split apart slowly. Sherlock goes deeper, always deeper. It’s so wonderful that John feels himself getting hard again. It’s so awful that he wants to scream. 

He wants it to stop. He wishes it would, but John says nothing. The pain is the point.

 _How much can you sacrifice? How much can you forgive? Trust me. Let me inside your soft, secret places. Do this for me. Let me hurt you._

“Look at me,” Sherlock rasps. John tries, but he can’t seem to focus his eyes. He feels the thrusts slowing, but too late, too late. 

“John, are you—” but then Sherlock is coming, and there’s nothing silent about it. He roars like a lion and buries his teeth in John’s right shoulder. John feels an echo of this animal pleasure, but he can’t quite manage another orgasm. That’s both a relief and a bitter disappointment. 

After a moment Sherlock withdraws from him, getting up to dispose of the condom. John rolls onto his side, looking blankly at the wallpaper. He traces all its slithering vines, but the pattern makes no sense: none of the breadths match, so the vines are cut in two, writhing like massacred snakes. John finds this sad. He always has, but right now it makes him feel so bad he could cry.

Sherlock is soon back, putting a hand on John’s shoulder and tracing downwards. His touch is careful, almost clinical. It moves over John’s body like he’s searching for wounds.

“Are you all right?” he says at last.

“We have to change this wallpaper,” John whispers. “It’s too tragic.”

 _“John.”_ One firm hand rolls him on his back. John blinks at the worry in Sherlock’s face.

He sits up, shaking his head to clear it. Certain ideas are still nagging, but he pushes them away. “What? That paper is a fucking disaster.” 

“Yes,” Sherlock says. “Of course.” His voice is still too careful.

John narrows his eyes at him. “You’re a twat.”

This rudeness seems to reassures Sherlock. One corner of his mouth turns up. “There he is. That’s John Watson.”

“If I appear shaken,” John says, raising his chin, “it’s from seeing that your spine is made from Silly Putty. What the fuck, Sherlock?”

“Bikram yoga.” Sherlock stretches smugly. “Another legacy of rehab.”

John just rolls his eyes at this, rising from the bed. “Where did I put my pants?”

“Where are you going?” 

“Shower.” Seeing Sherlock open his mouth: “No, you can’t join me. You have work to do.”

“Work?”

“My room,” John says, as he gathers clean clothes from the many piles on the floor. “The one you trashed yesterday. You promised to clean it up.”

Sherlock pouts. “It’s my birthday.”

“Happy Birthday. Clean the fucking room.” John finds his battered phone and heads for the hall.

“But—” John shuts the door firmly behind him, cutting off further protests.

He throws his clothes and phone in the sink and steps into the shower, turning the water as hot as he can stand it. He scrubs like he’s heading into surgery, using a rough flannel and lots of soap. He scrubs and scrubs, but he can’t seem to get clean. 

It’s not the sex. Penises aren’t poison, and John has been fucked plenty of times before. Not in such an exotic and impressive fashion, maybe, but deep penetration just the same. John got over that particular guilt when he was 18. It’s not what he’s feeling now. 

He doesn’t feel guilty, he feels used. Taken advantage of, though rationally speaking, that’s not what happened. If John didn’t like what they were doing, all he had to do was say so. Sherlock would have stopped, John knows that. Sherlock would never hurt him on purpose.

 _But he did hurt you. You’re still raw and bleeding, and not from his cock._

Harry’s voice again. This is getting unhealthy, and annoying. John isn’t angry anymore; he and Sherlock worked it all out. Sherlock said—well, he didn’t say he was sorry, actually. But he did tell John he loved him. Isn’t that the important bit?

_Sherlock didn’t say that. You said that. He just sat there._

“He asked me to stay,” John says, not caring that he’s talking to himself. 

_Sure. Then he gave you a blowjob and fucked you silly. Not exactly a bouquet of roses, is it?_

“I don’t want sodding roses.”

 _Maybe not. But you do want something. Sherlock hasn’t even come close to giving it to you. That’s why you feel like shit. The sex is not the point, John. It never has been._

John can’t answer this. The Harry-voice doesn’t press, the first bit of luck he’s had today.

The water’s gone cold, and his fingers are pruny. Sighing, he shuts off the water, towels dry, and reaches for his clothes. He feels better once he’s gotten dressed. He even puts socks and shoes on, though he doesn’t usually wear them inside. He could run out the front door any time.

That’s not what he wants, of course. He just wants breakfast. Sighing, John heads downstairs.


	40. Chapter 40

** John, 6 January 2013 (cont.) **

He’s greeted by the delicious scent of bacon and eggs, and the exotic sound of Serbian. Danica is in the kitchen, a phone in one hand and a spatula in the other. Nero is in the high chair that Danica lugs upstairs when she wants to feed him here. There’s a half-full bowl of cereal on the tray in front of the baby, but he’s not interested. Instead he watches his nanny whirling around the kitchen, turning over bacon and buttering toast, not once pausing in her phone conversation. 

Nero’s expression matches Danica’s: Both of them look irritated at something. 

“Eat,” she commands John, and slaps a plate on the table. Then she goes right back to her call. 

John sits down, feeling as if he’s imposing in his own house. He looks down at the plate in front of him. Danica isn’t the most polite housekeeper, but her cookery skills can’t be questioned. An English breakfast, beautifully made: crisp bacon, buttery toast, plump sausages, juicy beans, and succulent mushrooms and tomatoes. John can’t call it a full English without fried potatoes, but he’s too hungry to push the issue. Also, Danica is very scary right now, and might smack him.

John polishes off the beans and toast before gathering his courage and saying, “Is there any—”

A mug of black breakfast tea is plunked on the table. 

“Thank you,” he says meekly.

“Hmmph,” Danica says, then spits more Serbian into the phone. Whoever she’s talking to, it’s not a pleasant conversation.

John decides that discretion is the better part of valor. He works on silently cleaning his plate, while witnessing the not at all unpleasant sight of Danica bouncing around the kitchen in a low-cut top and tight track pants. Unconventional attire for a housekeeper, but John doesn’t mind. Watching that feminine flesh undulate is more soothing than a lava lamp.

 _“Jebem ti pola zabe! Mrtva ti se majka u grobu prevrnula kad bi videla kakvog sina je rodila!”_ With this final torrent of furious syllables, Danica slams the phone down on the counter. She stands there a moment, arms crossed over her chest. Then her wrathful blue eyes cut to John.

“Am I fat?” she snaps.

“Of course not.” John’s answer is automatic. Twenty-five years of girlfriends does leave one with a few useful instincts.

Danica doesn’t look convinced. “But my tits—they are too big?”

John blinks at her. “Sorry?”

“My brother Vlad,” Danica says, jerking her head at the telephone. “He says I will not find a boyfriend in England. I am too fat. Girls will not want me either; my tits are too big. English lesbians do not like big tits.”

“Bollocks. Ask my sister Harry.”

“What is her number? I will call her.” 

John imagines that query interrupting Harry’s Sunday brunch with her chic arty friends, and grins. But Harry is already mad enough at him. “You’ll have to trust me on this,” he says.

“Vlad says I must save my money,” Danica says, looking worried. “I will need boob job soon.” She cradles her hands in front of her chest, miming huge, sagging breasts. 

“Excuse me, love, but your brother sounds like a giant asshole.”

“Yes,” Danica agrees. “But this does not mean he is wrong. Vlad runs the biggest brothel in Podgorica. My uncle make him boss years ago. My brother knows women.”

“Oh.” John is at something of a loss. “Well, that still doesn’t—fucking hell, Dani!”

Danica has whipped off her shirt, proving what John already strongly suspected: She isn’t wearing a bra. 

“You are doctor,” she says. “Do I need boob job?”

John looks at the eggs on his plate, the dishes in the sink, Nero’s goggling grey eyes, anywhere but at Danica. “Please put your shirt on.”

She ignores this, bouncing on her toes, which has the expected effect on her tits. “Do I?” 

Her round little chin is stuck out stubbornly. John realizes that nothing is getting covered up until he gives her an answer.

“No,” he says. “You’re fine.”

“You have not looked!” Danica comes so close, his entire field of vision is invaded by jiggling flesh. _“Look.”_

Once upon a time, a hot young blonde begging him to look at her tits would have made John wonder what happy gods were smiling upon him, and what prayers would be necessary to keep their good favor. This morning he just feels tired. His room is trashed and his ass is sore and he didn’t get any fried potatoes. Those happy gods can piss right off.

But he looks. What else can he do? They’re right there. He tries to pretend he’s at the Clinic with a patient, which helps a bit.

Danica’s breasts are full and white, with pale blue veins tracing over the fragile skin. They’re not a true pear shape but still quite symmetrical, gently swaying globes capped with pouty pink nipples. They’re not too big, they’re not too saggy, they’re perfect. 

Nero makes a frustrated sound. He reaches out two greedy hands towards Danica.

_I’m with you there, lad. She’d taste all right, wouldn’t she?_

John tears his eyes away. He clears his throat and says, “You don’t need surgery.”

“You are sure?” 

“I’m sure. Tell your brother he’s a bloody idiot.”

Danica looks satisfied, and puts her shirt back on. 

She glances at the clock on the wall. _“Sranje!_ Julia comes soon. We have lunch today. Watch Baby, please. I must shower.” She starts for the door, but John grabs her wrist. 

“Dani,” he says. “Don’t do that again.” When she looks at him innocently: “You know what I mean. I’m your employer, sort of. That was fucking inappropriate. If you want a boyfriend—”

“I do not try to fuck you. I know you are gay.” 

John drops his hand. “What?”

Danica rolls her round blue eyes. “You are fucking Sherlock. You fuck him last night and this morning. I hear you.” She looks up at the ceiling. “You are loud.”

John shifts in his seat, face burning. He hasn’t blushed in years, but now he does. “I’m not—” he starts, but can’t finish. He swallows and tries again. “You sleep with women.” 

“But I am not gay. What is English word? _Biseksualan_ is how we say it in Montenegro.”

“Bisexual. I suppose that’s what I am.”

“John, _dragi,_ no.” Danica shakes her head at him. “You are gay.”

He glares at her. “I loved looking at your tits. I wanted to grab them.”

“Nero grabs my tits,” she says with a sad smile. “He miss his mama so much! All men miss their mamas, I think. But Nero do not want to fuck me. You do not. You want only Sherlock.” She sighs. “I am very sorry for you.” 

She looks at the clock again. “Watch Nero, please. I must tell you, he is mean today. He lose his bear, so he hate the world.” She puts a fond hand on the boy’s brown curls. “So strange! Just like his papa.” 

Danica exits on that line, leaving John looking helplessly after her. 

He looks down at his plate. There’s a big meaty sausage left, but the sight of it makes him ill. He pushes the plate away.

“Bababababa!” 

John’s head jerks up. “What?” he says to Nero.

Nero bangs his hands on the highchair tray. 

John should have known. With Nero, it’s always about food. He gets up, dumping the baby’s bowl of soggy cereal in the bin. He gets him a fresh bowl, pours milk on, and slaps it on the tray. 

“There. _Bon_ bloody _appétit.”_

John sits back at the table, scowling.

 _Yesterday_  
 _All my troubles seemed so far away_  
 _Now it looks as though they’re here to stay_

He fumbles his mobile out of his pocket. “Hey. Sorry about earlier. Sherlock’s a dick.”

“Yeah. There goes my theory that all he needs is to get laid.”

John pinches the bridge of his nose. “Can we not do this, Nev?”

“You must be fucking joking. The shag of the century, and I’m not allowed to ask?”

“There’s nothing to tell. We did it. End of story.”

“Oh, come on. Where did you do it? What rooms and positions? Is Sherlock a top or a bottom? Either way, he’s looks like a dirty fuck to me. Those posh repressed types always are. I think it’s the inbreeding. You should hear some of the dirt I’ve got on HRH Harry, can’t publish any of it, but it’s worth a listen if you’ll buy me a pint. Of course, first I have to hear about Sherlock—”

“What about you and Ford Huxley last night? All that sexting and the Shadow Lounge.”

“You think that’s sexting? My poor naïve lamb, you really must check out Grindr. Anyway, I didn’t go to the Lounge. Didn’t fancy being the Bride of Satan. And quit trying to change the subject: What happened with Sherlock?”

“Bababababa!” 

John is almost grateful for the interruption. “Sorry. That’s the baby. Hang on.” 

Nero, his cereal untouched, stares up at him. 

“What?” John says. “What do you want?”

Nero says nothing, but something in those grey eyes implies that John is the stupidest ape ever to drag his knuckles over the Earth. 

His chest starting to burn, John goes to the fridge and grabs one of the pre-made bottles of formula. He sticks it in the microwave.

“What are you doing?” Neville says.

“Heating a bottle for the bottomless pit.” The microwave beeps, and John takes the bottle out and shakes it hard to get rid of any hotspots.

“Poor little bugger. I’d eat my head off too, if I lost my mum.”

John doesn’t answer, just tightens the lid of the bottle and gives it to Nero.

“Anyway,” Neville says. “About you and Sherlock—”

“Shit!” John says, hearing a loud thunk. “He threw the bottle on the floor.”

“Bababababa!” Nero bangs his hands on the tray.

“Do you need to go?” Neville says. “I know what they’re like at that age.”

“No. Just a sec.” John picks up the bottle and puts it back on the tray. “That’s enough out of you, young man,” he says to Nero. “Eat your dinner.” 

He walks into the lounge, leaving Nero to his solitary meal.

“This is so cute,” Neville says. “Daddy John. It suits you.”

“Fuck off.”

“I’m serious. Next thing you know, you’ll be buying mini Arsenal jerseys and taking him to the park. Too bad you’re basically married: I used to get so many numbers when I took Sophie out.” Neville sighs. “Of course, they all came from women.” 

“I am _not_ mar—”

 _“Bababababa!”_ Nero screams. John whirls around.

Thunk! Goes the bottle to the floor. Nero’s mouth is pursed tight, his eyes narrowed to slits. 

John knows this look. This is how a Holmes looks when he’s about to be a total pain in the ass.

“Nero,” John says, in his best Captain’s voice. “Stop.”

In reply, pudgy fingers grip the edge of the cereal bowl.

 _“Nero—!”_ John starts running, but too late. The baby flings the bowl as hard as he can. Milk and Cheerios go flying in a wide arc, splattering the table, the cupboards, and the floor.

“You dick!” 

“You can’t call a baby a dick,” Neville says.

“Why not?” John glares at Nero. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Bababababa.”

John pinches the bridge of his nose, praying for patience.

“Right, I’m going,” Neville says. “Remember, never shake a baby. Even if he is a dick.” 

“Noted.”

“Speaking of dicks, talk to Sherlock. The forum is still a mess. I’ve banned the worst of the lot, but they’re all popping up again on Tumblr and Twitter. They’re really gonna do it, J.”

“Do what?”

“The damned shrine. Be on the lookout.”

“Sure,” John says absently, peering at Nero. “Bye.” 

He slips the phone in his pocket. He crosses his arms over his chest. “What’s your problem?” he says to the baby. “Is this nappy-related? Is that it?” 

John walks to the high chair and puts a hand against Nero’s bottom. The nappy is squishy, and John sighs. “Right.”

He grabs the nappy bag from where Danica left it on the small granite table. He takes out a clean nappy, inspecting it closely. His knowledge of how to do this is limited, but it can’t be that hard.

He takes the nappy and the bag and puts them on the floor of the lounge. He spreads out a baby blanket. He goes back to the kitchen and washes his hands thoroughly at the sink, then picks up Nero. The baby babbles, sounding more content. He holds on to John, grip surprisingly strong.

John puts the baby on the floor and undoes the dirty nappy. He’s relieved to see it’s not that bad, urine-soaked but nothing more. He grabs a baby wipe from the bag and gets Nero clean. Nero kicks his legs. He plays with his little penis, as if he’s quite proud of it and wants to be sure John takes notice. (In terms of development, eight months is about the right age for a boy to become obsessed with his junk. When will Nero grow out of it? If he’s normal, age 80 or thereabouts.) 

“Very impressive. I’m sure you’ll grow up to be an arrogant sod too, just like dear old dad.”

“Da!” Nero agrees.

John shakes his head and finishes his task. Though every bad romcom would say otherwise, changing a baby isn’t that complicated. When he’s done, John picks Nero up and carries him back to the high-chair. Nero is quite portable, snuggling into John’s jumper and cooing. 

Trouble doesn’t start until John tries to put him in the chair. Coos becomes screams. Nero starts kicking hard, his face getting red. “BABABABA.”

“What?” John says, holding the baby at arms’ length. “What the hell is a _baba?_ I know it’s not a bottle. That would be too easy.”

Nero holds out his hands like he wants to clutch onto something. Finally, John gets it. Danica mentioned it, and John knows the toy in question, though he’s not sure what all the fuss is about. It’s just a small, dull thing in an ugly jumper. Thoroughly chewed and abused, but Nero seems quite smitten.

“I’m sorry your bear is gone,” John says. “Faust probably took it. I’m sure it will turn up.”

“Baba,” Nero says tearfully. John looks into that sad, red little face and sighs.

“If it doesn’t, Sherlock will get you another bear. He’s your dad. That’s his bloody job.” 

He tries one more time to put Nero in the chair, but at the first unholy shriek, he has to pick him right back up again. Nero clutches at John’s jumper, whimpering.

“Fucking hell.” John has no choice but to give in, letting Nero cling on like a monkey. 

Together, they survey the sopping kitchen. 

“Look at the state of this place,” John says sternly. “Proud of yourself?”

Nero takes a fistful of John’s jumper and sticks it in his mouth.

“Well, as long as you’re sorry,” John sighs, and reaches for the kitchen roll.

Changing a baby is straightforward. Wiping down an entire kitchen with one hand is something else. By the time he’s done, John is sweaty and peevish. Nero, however, appears chuffed. He has watched John’s every move, chewing on a mouthful of jumper all the while. 

Finally, most of the spilled cereal is cleaned up. What remains, Danica can take care of when she’s back from lunch with Julia. (Another woman who showed him her tits for her own selfish purposes. When did John officially become a Non-Threatening Boy?) 

He goes into the lounge and sits at the desk between the windows. Keeping one arm around the baby, he opens his laptop. “You’re going to have to amuse yourself,” he says to Nero. “I’ve got work to do.”

“Da.” Nero’s cold little hand pats at John’s face.

“Glad we’ve come to this understanding." John reaches for the mouse.

It’s about time he took a look at those forum posts Neville has been yammering on about. He hasn’t been at his website much in the last few days—too much going on, none of which could be talked about online. John still doesn’t know how he’s going to break the news of Sherlock’s return. Why is it even his job? Sherlock perpetrated this outrageous fraud, shouldn’t he be the one who cleans up the mess? 

Sherlock isn’t good at messes. He never has been. For a man with such incredible powers of observation, Sherlock is bad with ordinary details. A master manipulator when it suits him, Sherlock rarely organizes anything that isn’t case-related. Everyday life gets in the way of his greater obsessions; he just ignores it, assuming that someone else will come along and tidy up. In the past, somebody always has. For a long time it was Mycroft, and then it was John. 

For the past three years, John is the one who has picked up towels and sent out laundry and bought the milk for Sherlock’s morning Weetabix. John runs the website and does the initial vetting on the cases, he buys train tickets and e-mails clients and deposits the checks when the cases are over. Sherlock is like a master composer, too busy making masterpieces to feed and clothe himself. John is—well. It’s pretty damned obvious what John is, isn’t it? 

He closes the laptop. He can’t look at the forum. The sight of one manip that’s given him tits, blue or otherwise, and he’s going to lose the plot entirely. He doesn’t even have the heart to go in and start banning. What good would it do? The fans are just telling the truth as they see it.

Of course Sherlock is leaving it to John to make the announcement of his return. It’s one more Holmesian mess for John to worry over. A lot more complicated than cleaning up spilled cereal, but the same sodding thing in the end. 

“Well. This is a new development.”

John looks up. While he was lost in his thoughts, Sherlock has come in and is now standing over the desk. He’s dressed in yesterday’s clothes, but there’s barely a wrinkle on them. He’s freshly showered, just a few wet ringlets curling around his white neck. His skin glows, his pale eyes are clear. Everything they did, everything that he has done, and none of it seems to touch him. 

John would bet 50 quid that the upstairs bedroom is still a fucking mess.

Sherlock, immaculate and complacent, smiles down at him.

“I think he likes you. But that’s not surprising. Of course you’re good with children.” 

John looks down. Nero has fallen asleep, in the process drooling all over the front of John’s jumper. A Cheerio is stuck to John’s sleeve. 

He jumps up from the desk, jostling Nero awake. He disentangles Nero’s deathgrip, ignoring all whines and protests, and holds him out to Sherlock.

“Take him.”

“Why?” 

“Because he’s yours.” 

Sherlock takes his son. He and the baby stare at John with identical expressions of confusion. 

“Are you all right?” he says.

“Fucking brilliant.” John walks towards the kitchen. He could murder a cuppa right now.

Sherlock follows with the baby. John hears him sniff. “I fail to understand why Danica insists on cooking a full English breakfast. She knows I can’t abide the smell.”

“It’s not a full English. No potatoes,” John says, violently dunking the teabag in his mug.

Sherlock looks inquiringly at the cabinet by the stove. “Any Weetabix left?”

“Half a box,” John says automatically. Then, enraged at himself: “Maybe. I don’t know.”

He scowls into his tea, hearing Sherlock fix himself a bowl of cereal and sit down at the table. 

Nero is content enough in the crook of his father’s arm, though he makes the occasional whine. “What’s the matter?” Sherlock finally asks him, with grave seriousness. “Where’s your bear?”

“Heyehweah!” Nero exclaims, spreading his hands. 

“Gone? Really? That’s quite unexpected.”

Nero scowls. “Owapaba _ba!”_

“Yes, it was very bad of him. What right did he have to leave you?”

“Maybe the bear wanted a break,” John says.

Sherlock peers at him. “Excuse me?”

“How would you like to be chewed on all day? Maybe the bear was tired of the abuse. Maybe he wanted a bit of bloody appreciation. Ever think of that?”

“No,” Sherlock says slowly. “It never occurred to me that Nero’s stuffed bear might feel unappreciated.”

“Typical,” John mutters, and drowns his teabag again.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” Sherlock says, after a pause. “You sound—odd.”

“I’m tired. Didn’t sleep well.”

Sherlock smirks at that. “Well, today shouldn’t be taxing. Mycroft is bringing people over to take measures for a security system, but that doesn’t entail any effort on our part.” He pauses. “They’ll have to make a few structural alterations. I hope that’s not a problem.”

“It’s your house. Anyway, it will be. I’ll talk to Harry about drawing up the papers this week.”

“I’m tired of paperwork. I’d rather keep things simple.”

“How could we possibly do that?”

Sherlock doesn’t answer right away, instead using his cereal spoon to play tug of war with Nero. Finally, he puts the spoon down and says, “We should get married.”

John starts so hard he overturns his mug. “Fuck!” He jumps up and grabs the kitchen roll. But it’s hard to mop up this mess, even with two hands. Both of them are shaking badly.

“Did you hear what I said?”

John stops, clutching a wad of dripping towels. “Yes. Is this a joke?”

“No, it’s logic. If we marry, all property will be held in common. The ceremony at the registry office will require a few signatures, I suppose. But nothing so complicated as the other method.” Sherlock’s expression is calm. It’s the one he always wears when he’s convincing John to go along with one of his mad schemes. It’s almost smug, of course it is. John always agrees.

“No,” John says. 

Sherlock’s brows draw together. “Why not?”

“I’m not your fucking wife.”

_“What?”_

“You look so surprised,” John says. “I wonder why. For three sodding years I’ve acted like your missus, but no more. Do you hear me? No. More.”

He throws down the mess in his hands and runs out of the kitchen. He thought he was going to make a clean getaway, but he’s forgotten just how fast Sherlock can move. He’s in the landing outside the lounge when his arm is caught. 

“What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Don’t you fucking touch me,” John says, jerking away. “I’m not a chew toy, Sherlock. I do not exist for your bloody convenience.”

John runs down the stairs. Sherlock is right on his heels. He’s still carrying the baby, and this should have been enough to give John the advantage. But Sherlock is too slippery, as always. As they get to the street door, Sherlock gets around him and blocks the exit.

“John, calm down. You’re not making sense.”

John barks laughter. “I know, it’s hard for you to understand when things don’t go your way. Irene getting herself run over or whatever, that must have been a shock. But you worked it out, didn’t you? Get John from cold storage and slot him right in. You fucking sociopath.”

Sherlock has gone still. “Is that what you really think?”

“No remorse,” John says. “No apology. Not one spark of empathy. It’s almost textbook.”

It takes Sherlock a moment to answer. When he does, his voice is emotionless, every single syllable overenunciated. His vivisecting voice.

“I tried to apologize,” he says. “New Year’s Day—you didn’t want to hear it. I tried to explain, but you wouldn’t let me. You wouldn’t admit you were angry, not even to yourself. Just like you wouldn’t admit for years that you were in love with me. Last night I had to physically attack you to break through your denial. I thought we really had broken through, but now I see that you’re just as mired in your neuroses as ever. So while we’re making diagnoses, perhaps you should review the symptoms for Avoidant Personality Disorder. In case you don’t recall, allow me to summarize. Put simply, it’s the clinical definition of _a bloody coward.”_

John wants to hit him. He would have, if Sherlock weren’t holding a baby. Instead, he pushes him roughly out of the way and bursts through the street door.

He might have escaped if he hadn’t run right smack into Julia Siviter, walking up the steps.

“John? Did you know about—” Julia stops, eyes widening as she sees Sherlock coming out the front door. “Sherlock. My God. What are you—”

“Take him,” Sherlock says, and shoves Nero into her arms. Finally unencumbered, he grabs John by the shoulders. “You are _not_ running away,” he says. “Not this time.”

“Get your fucking hands off!” John tries to twist free, but Sherlock holds him fast.

“No. You’re being ridiculous. After last night, this reaction is totally irrational.”

 _“Gentlemen,”_ Julia says. “Look—!”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” John says. “What did you think, Sherlock? That your penis has magical properties? You shag me rotten with your great big cock, and I forget all the horrible shit you’ve done? You’re not that good, _nobody_ is that good, you arrogant bloody bastard. I don’t care how many insane positions you can pretzel yourself into—”

Sherlock throws his hands up. “Oh, I’m sure your despair was palpable! How could I have missed it? I suppose I got distracted by all those times you were coming your head off!”

“John, Sherlock—for God’s sake!” Fingers are plucking at John’s sleeve, but he ignores them.

“You—you seduced me, you sociopathic cunt! Why am I surprised? Crazy people are always the best shags, aren’t they? I got bloody Sherlocked!”

“Yes, my crimes are unforgivable. Shagging a man who is madly in love with me. One who’s been taking it up the arse for _twenty fucking years—”_

Sherlock cuts off, as you must when your collar is pulled back tight enough to strangle you.

“WOULD YOU LOOK,” Julia screams. She forcibly jerks Sherlock’s head to the left.

Sherlock looks, and goes white. 

John, blinking in confusion, follows his line of sight. 

He sits down on the front steps. He has to. His knees have turned to jelly.

The shrine to Sherlock has been built just to the left of the front steps of 221, taking up most of the fence which separates the ground level of 219 from the street. Photographs, drawings, and Photoshop manips cover the iron bars of the fence. In front of those are mounds of flowers and stuffed animals, a battalion of candles in glass jars, and scores of multicolored signs in all sizes and shapes. The biggest must be three meters across, so big that it blocks part of the sidewalk, huge yellow letters on a black background. I BELIEVE IN SHERLOCK HOLMES.

The fans who built the shrine are crowded around it. They are probably young and mostly female, though in this terrible moment John can’t make out distinguishing features. He can’t even determine numbers. All he sees is what appears to be an ocean of round, staring eyes.

For a moment there is nothing but dead silence, broken only by the sounds of traffic. Then:

“Oh my God,” a voice cries. _“Oh my God it’s Sherlock—”_

Like a single stone setting off an avalanche, the voice is drowned by a chorus of shouts and exclamations. Impossible to make out more words, it’s just one deafening tsunami of sound rushing towards them. But that’s not the most terrifying thing.

So much worse are the camera flashes. Flash after flash after flash. Sherlock and John stay frozen, trapped by the annihilating gaze of their adoring public.


	41. Chapter 41

**Sherlock, 6 January 2013**

When Sherlock was a boy, the only time he was allowed into his father’s office was when Siger wanted to berate him for some wrongdoing. This did not happen very often, as Sherlock spent his brief vacations from boarding school actively avoiding his father’s basilisk eye. But the few occasions he did cross that threshold are memorable, so much so that even today, his father long dead and his brother amazingly calm about this latest fiasco, Sherlock still feels guilty.

He slumps down in his chair in the far corner of the office, half-hidden by the massive antique globe (a Molyneux, larger and finer than the one in the British Museum). His head is down, to the casual observer he would look as sullen as any sixteen-year-old. But his choice of seat is strategic, not petulant. It gives him an excellent view of the people clustered around Mycroft’s desk, the real players in this scene. 

Mycroft instructed him to say nothing; indeed, he has nothing to say. The only person he would like to talk to is seated in the other corner, absorbed by his mobile. The chances of having a civil conversation with John are nil, though it’s the only thing Sherlock wants for his birthday. 

With some effort he tears his gaze from John, as the Police Commissioner finishes his long spiel and finally gets to the point. The man straightens his broad shoulders, his craggy face properly grave as he says, “Under the circumstances, I’m afraid serious charges are inevitable.”

Harry Watson, seated in the red leather guest chair, is Sunday-casual in soft wool trousers and a cashmere jumper. But her voice is as abrasive as ever. 

“Bollocks. You people aren’t going to do a fucking thing, and you know it. Now quit dicking around and tell us what you’re after, before we toss your ass out of here and you can talk to that fucking brick wall outside.”

“Ms. Watson, please,” Mycroft says, as the Commissioner reddens. “If we keep things civil, I’m sure we can find a mutually acceptable solution to our current problem.” 

Mycroft’s voice is conciliatory. You would have to know him very well to see the ghost of a smile that hovers around his lips. Trained from birth to never show strong emotion, never utter a direct threat, Mycroft seems to take perverse pleasure in outspokenness in others, particularly if those others are female. It’s the only explanation for his fondness for Harry.

He turns to the Commissioner. “I understand your concerns, as does my attorney. But you must understand, she is worried for her brother.” He pauses. “As I am for mine.”

“I’m not that worried,” Harry says. “John was cleared months ago for that dust up with the Superintendent. As for Sherlock, the worst the Met has on him is trespassing on the roof of St. Barts. You want him to pay the 50 quid fine, Oliver? He’ll write you a check.”

“Do you think this is a joke, Miss Watson?” the Commissioner says. “Holmes faked his death.”

“Which is not a crime. It was an apparent suicide, so there was no police investigation. Therefore, no taxpayer money was wasted. The Holmes family filed no insurance claim, so there was no fiscal malfeasance. You’ve no proof that Sherlock used a false identity during his time away, or perpetrated any other kind of fraud. You don’t have jack shit, in other words.”

“The false press—” 

“Are you fucking kidding? That jump sold a million fucking papers. Right now, every hack in London would suck Sherlock’s cock for an exclusive interview.” Harry throws up her hands in exasperation. “You already know this! Why did I miss Sunday brunch to teach you your A-B-fucking-C’s? Is it Alzheimer’s, Ollie? Have you told the wife and kids yet?”

“I don’t have to listen to this—” Commissioner Wells is getting to his feet, but Mycroft stands also, gently easing the man back into his seat.

“Ms. Watson is too frank,” Mycroft says. “But her point is sound. You have no real grounds. What is your purpose here?”

“Avoiding utter chaos, Mr. Holmes!” the Commissioner exclaims. “Have you seen the crowds on Baker Street? Have you turned on the television or looked online? The whole bloody city is convulsing, thanks to your little brother.”

“London is always convulsing. Today it’s Sherlock, tomorrow it will be something else. But my family does have a great deal to attend to, given the circumstances. I’m as anxious for resolution as you are, but I would appreciate a speedy conclusion to this meeting.”

The Commissioner’s mouth works, as if he’s tasting every word of a possible reply and finding none of them appetizing. Mycroft’s expression remains courteous, even friendly, but the index finger of his left hand is gently tapping the signet ring on his right hand. He’s irritated, and the emotion is increasing.

“Fuck this,” Harry says. “Get a warrant, gentlemen. If you can.” She starts to rise. “I’m going home to see if there are any strawberry crepes left.”

“He wants to know what you’ve done with Moriarty.”

All heads in the office swivel towards the man in the wrinkled mac sitting behind his boss. 

“Lestrade—” the Commissioner begins, but the DI shakes his head at him.

“You can’t outfox this lot, Sir. May as well put our cards on the table.” Lestrade looks at Sherlock. “It will be easier if you tell us the truth. All things considered, you probably have an excellent case for self-defense.”

“That is _not_ an official offer!” the Commissioner exclaims. “We would have to launch a full investigation first.” He turns his furious eyes on Sherlock. “I make no promises,” he says. “The Met is not in the habit of bargaining with murderers.”

“Alleged murderer,” Mycroft says. “You would be wise to make that distinction, Commissioner Wells.” His voice is quiet, but the temperature in the room just dropped 10 degrees.

The Commissioner seems to have trouble meeting Mycroft’s gaze. He jerks his wattled chin towards John instead. “If you know what is good for you, young man, you won’t try to protect Sherlock Holmes. Whatever— _strange attachment_ may exist between you.” 

John, stoic and silent, just goes back to his phone. But Harry laughs. “This is bloody brilliant. Slander cases are a fucking goldmine! I’ve always wanted a villa in sunny Spain.”

“It’s not slander,” the Commissioner insists. “I’ve seen the video footage.”

“The whole country’s seen that video. We all know John and Sherlock are shagging. What does it have to do with the price of tea in China?”

 _“Allegedly,”_ the Commissioner says, lip curling, “they were in on it together. Holmes was obviously the ringleader, but Watson helped him execute the crime and escape afterwards. This pantomime he’s been putting on in the press for the last three months was nothing but a feint to aid his—his—”

“Lover,” Harry says. “You don’t need an alleged there. Homosexuality hasn’t been illegal since 1967. But it’s interesting how you seem to equate a former felony with a present one.” She wriggles her shoulders in an excited way. “So I can throw discrimination on top of character assassination! Awesome. You keep right on talking, Ollie. I’ll own the whole damned Iberian peninsula at this rate.”

Wells’ blustering is more of the same, and dull to observe. Much more interesting is the sparkle in Mycroft’s gaze as he looks at Harry. Were she not so committedly lesbian, and Mycroft’s own affections (such as they are) long engaged elsewhere, Sherlock might assume a second Holmes-Watson marriage proposal is imminent. 

_Mycroft might stand a better chance,_ he thinks. _At least Harry doesn’t think he’s a sociopath._

“Commissioner, please,” Mycroft says, cutting in smoothly on the diatribe. “Allow me to spare you the burden of further explanation. You hoped to distract Sherlock and John with these false charges, thus intimidating them into betraying guilt of a far more serious offense. An offense for which there is no proof—not even a corpse. A workable scheme, were my brother and his partner total idiots. Since they are not, this meeting is over. Should you wish to pursue the matter further, I assume Ms. Watson has given you her card? Yes? Wonderful. I will escort you out.”

Ignoring more bluster from the Commissioner, Mycroft steers him out the office door, keeping up a stream of polite chatter all the while. Lestrade stands too, but he heads for Sherlock’s chair. 

“Despite everything, I’m glad you’re alive,” he says. 

Lestrade has aged markedly in the last six months—more than John, whose sufferings are clear enough. Lestrade is not in love with Sherlock, but professional grief can corrode a man’s soul as much as the personal kind. Seeing the DI’s reddened eyes, the hard-etched lines around his nose and mouth, Sherlock replies more gently than he might have otherwise.

“That’s kind of you,” he says. “Few of your fellow officers would say the same.”

“You’d be surprised. Oliver Wells doesn’t speak for all of us. Not even most of us.”

“I doubt Sergeant Donovan is planning a welcome home party.”

“Sally Donovan no longer works for the Met.” Seeing Sherlock raise an eyebrow: “A sergeant’s position opened up in Manchester. She took it.”

“She moved across the country for a lateral position?”

“It was a good offer. Lots of possibilities for advancement there.” Lestrade fixes Sherlock with his tired brown eyes. “I suggested she take it. She was never going to get anywhere at the Met. Not working for me, anyway.”

Sherlock looks at him a moment, then nods. “Thank you, Greg. I appreciate the—support.”

“Too little, too fucking late.”

Sherlock and Lestrade both look at John. He’s standing up, not looking so stoic now. The hand that clutches his phone is trembling.

“John—” Lestrade begins, but John cuts him off.

“You tell Donovan to sod off, and you think that makes everything okay? Where was all that loyalty last June? When we really needed it, where the fuck were you? Typing up our arrest warrants, that’s where you were. You can take your support and fucking choke on it.”

“I gave your blog an interview,” Lestrade protests. “Do you know what a risk that was?”

“What, telling the truth? That Sherlock pulled your ass out of the fire more times than you can count? Poor you, forced to act like a decent human being. A sodding tragedy, that is.” 

Sherlock blinks at the rage in the words. He stands, holding out a conciliatory hand. “John, that’s not really—”

“Shut your bleeding mouth, Sherlock. I’ve had enough of your wisdom today.” John shoves his phone in his pocket and brushes past them without another word. In a moment comes the sound of heavy footsteps as he runs upstairs. 

“Right. I—” Greg stops, shaking his head. “Sorry. I—sorry.”

Shoulders hunching, he puts his hands in his coat pockets and exits.

“Impressive, huh?”

Sherlock looks at Harry. She gives him a smile that he can’t interpret.

“My brother has always been excellent at telling people to go fuck themselves. He should have been the attorney.”

“We’re overwrought. It’s been a very trying day.”

“Is that the royal ‘we,’ Sherlock?” Harry says, tilting her head at him. “Or do you think you speak for my brother now?”

Sherlock stares at her, not sure how to answer this. Harry’s still smiling, but her hazel eyes are shiny with anger.

“I dunno, maybe you do,” she continues. “Maybe I’m going to have to get used to the idea of having you for a brother-in-law. John’s really pissed off, but he’s really fucking loyal to you. I couldn’t understand it for the longest time, why he puts up with your shit. But after these latest shenanigans, I finally got it. He was raised by an abusive addict, so of course he grows up and falls in love with one. You’ve been to rehab what, three times?” 

“Twice.”

“Me too. I got the drunk gene, not the co-dependent gene. Rehab’s great, all that exercise and art therapy. I bet you did yoga, you look like the type. So did I, but twisting myself into a knot didn’t do a goddamn thing for my anger issues. You know what did?”

Sherlock sees that she won’t finish this without a reply. “What?” 

_“Guns._ I found myself a target range close to home. A couple of times a month, I blow the shit out of a bunch of paper men. Come home fresh as a daisy. John and I have had a few shooting contests, it’s our version of sibling bonding. He’s a really good shot. But I’m better.”

Harry stops smiling. She comes so close to him, her L’air du Temps assaults his nostrils. 

“I want you to listen to me very carefully. I’m not grandstanding. This is not drama. What I’m going to tell you is the pure, unvarnished truth. If you hurt John again, you’re going to find out just how good a shot I am. Do you understand?”

Sherlock looks at her closely. Despite the difference in eye color, Harry’s gaze is much like John’s. Except there is no affection there for him, none at all. Quite the opposite. He knows in this moment that she could kill him, efficiently and ruthlessly, and eat strawberry crepes the next morning. What a pity that Mycroft, with his fine nose for personnel, didn’t find her years ago! Harry Watson could have been so much more than a lawyer.

Finally, he nods. “I do understand. But you needn’t worry. John’s well-being is even more of a priority for me than it is for you.”

“The day I believe that is the day I call you brother-in-law,” Harry says. “Until then, you’re just some asshole John is fucking.” 

She leaves then. She really couldn’t have chosen a better parting shot. Those Watsons do have a way with words.

Sherlock paces around the room for a bit. Then he drops down on the piano stool, sighing.

Presently, Mycroft returns. “Well. That went better than expected.”

“If you consider goading the Commissioner into apoplexy, ‘well.’”

Mycroft allows himself a smirk. “Harriet Watson is too droll.”

“Hilarious.” Sherlock plinks a few discordant notes on the piano. “She threatened to kill me.”

Mycroft looks unconcerned as he seats himself at the desk. “In her position, I’d do the same.”

“Only a fool betrays his true emotions, or his true intentions. Or so Father always said.”

“Yes. Candor is like eating a whole plate of strawberry crepes. A few moments of indulgence followed by days of regret.” Mycroft gives Sherlock a significant look. “It’s much better when we control ourselves, isn’t it?”

“I have to check on Nero,” Sherlock says, rising. “He was out of sorts this morning.”

“The boy is well enough. He can wait a moment,” Mycroft says. “We have to talk.” 

“I don’t see why—”

“You know I can’t help you if I don’t have all the facts.” 

“I don’t need you to—”

“Sherlock.” Mycroft says nothing more. He doesn’t have to, he simply looks at him. It’s the same expression Sherlock has seen on his older brother’s face many times and in many places, from his boyhood bedroom to a Paris hospital to a bloodied villa in Montenegro.

Sherlock leaves the piano and sits in the red leather chair.

Mycroft lets him contemplate his sins for a few moments, before steepling his hands and saying, “When I left Baker Street yesterday, things between you and John were tense but stable. What happened?” He frowns. “I meant this morning. We can skip the details of the consummation.”

“I don’t know.”

“Come now—”

“I don’t! We had a rather serious row, not surprising, had to clear the air a bit, but then we—reconciled. This morning—” Sherlock rubs at his temples. “I don’t know. He was fine, and then he wasn’t.” 

“At what point did he lose his temper?”

Sherlock gives Mycroft a level look. “I asked him to marry me. Just as you advised.” 

Mycroft seems pleased by this. “What did John say to that?”

“In so many words? Piss off.”

“Didn’t you explain about the paperwork?” 

“Yes, Mycroft, I did. For some reason, avoiding paperwork was not enough to convince John Watson to marry a sociopath.”

“You’re not a sociopath. You’re a histrionic.” 

Most people would not realize that Mycroft is joking, or appreciate the joke. Despite everything, Sherlock’s lips quirk. “Not a narcissist? They say there’s one in every family.”

“With Sherrinford in the picture? I believe that position is filled.” 

For a moment, Mycroft twists his signet ring contemplatively. Then he seems to gather himself. “You must make things up with John. You need each other’s support, particularly now.”

“How am I supposed to do that?”

“He’s your bloody husband, Sherlock. Work it out.”

Sherlock looks past the peevishness to the real concern beneath. “Why is mutual support so crucial now? The current publicity is irritating, but not actively threatening.”

“The publicity is not. James Moriarty is.”

Sherlock leans forward in the chair, his heart suddenly pounding. “You’ve found him?”

When they last spoke in detail about the matter, Mycroft only had proof of life, not an actual location. Trust his brother to be busy even over the holidays.

“I found him five days ago.”

Sherlock bounces to his feet. “You didn’t tell me? Of all the arrogant—”

“Sit down. You know I detest having to crane my neck when I’m speaking to someone.” 

Though there’s no reason to comply, Sherlock does. Perhaps because Siger had the same aversion. But he glares at Mycroft expectantly.

“Since Christmas, you’ve been under enormous strain,” Mycroft says. “I thought it best to give you time to get your bearings. Gabriel and his people have had Moriarty under surveillance. He didn’t appear to be causing any immediate trouble, so there was no hurry.”

“Where is he?”

“Singapore. But a little after 8 PM, local time, he disappeared. Gabriel’s people are very good, but it’s as if Moriarty vanished into thin air. Surprising, since he’d never given any indication that he knew he was being watched. Apparently he did, but didn’t feel it was necessary to avoid detection. Until 8 PM—that would be noon, our time. What do you think changed his mind?”

Sherlock looks at his hands. “My resurrection.”

“A logical assumption. The news broke internationally right about then. But here is something which is not logic, only supposition. Until that time, Moriarty had no idea where you were—it’s even possible he didn’t realize you were alive. Now he does, and he intends to do something with that information. It’s not supposition to believe it’s something threatening. Fatally so.”

The black dread in Sherlock’s belly isn’t unfamiliar. But there’s a red streak of terror in it he’s never felt before. “That fucking YouTube video,” he whispers. “He knows about Nero.” 

Gathering his self-control, he raises his head. “How fast can you get us out of the country?”

“You know how fast. But it would be a mistake to flee when we don’t have any facts.”

Sherlock clenches the arms of his chair. Fearsweat makes the leather slick beneath his palms. “Mycroft. This is my son.”

“And my nephew. Do you think I take Nero’s safety any less seriously? Think, Sherlock! You fled six months ago, and what did it accomplish? Why did you come back here if not to resolve this? You must face him, or those you care for will never be safe. Not if you flee to the moon.”

“I thought I would have more time. I thought I would have the advantage, but now—”

“You still have the advantage. A psychopath can win battles, but never wars. He doesn’t have the patience. Moriarty is a tactician, not a strategist. If you’d held your ground last June—”

“I’m aware of your opinion.” Mycroft explained all of Sherlock’s strategic failures on the way back from Budva. Perhaps the least pleasant part of Christmas, and that includes discovering Irene’s butchered corpse.

Sherlock rubs his temples, trying to think. But his mind goes in a hundred directions. He hasn’t felt this kind of panic since he and John were running handcuffed through the streets of London. But this is worse. Then he wasn’t afraid of death, now he is. He has so much more to lose. 

“You know I’ll help you,” Mycroft says. 

The words are so calm, they sound careless. If you didn’t know him, you wouldn’t take them seriously. But Sherlock does know him. The one constant of his whole wretched, chaotic life. 

The truth of this makes his eyes prickle shamefully. Sherlock closes them and takes a breath, trying to find his composure. The training of 33 years, not to betray emotions, even to those most dear. Once his vision is clear, he opens his eyes and says, “What do we do?”

“We wait. You and Nero are safe in this house, that isn’t a question. You even have the option of returning to Baker Street, once the security system is finished and the public furor dies down. We’ll find Moriarty sooner or later. If anyone can pick up his trail, it’s Gabriel. When we have more data, we can decide.” 

“I can’t just sit here.”

“Am I telling you to? _Think,_ Sherlock. Strategize. Speak to John about this—he’s not subtle, but that doesn’t mean his ideas aren’t useful. Strategy aside, this estrangement between you is ludicrous. You must convince him to reconcile with you.”

“Again, _how?”_

Mycroft pauses for a long moment, tapping one finger on the desk blotter. “Well. According to the YouTube video, you do have certain abilities—”

“Oh my God.” Sherlock sprints for the door.

“Sherlock. Wait.”

He stops, but he won’t turn around. He leans his forehead against the door. “I swear to God, Mycroft. If you say one word about the size of my penis, I’m throwing myself off St. Barts for real. There will be no need for strategizing.”

“Please. I’m profoundly uninterested in your genitalia. This is another matter.”

Sherlock turns back. Mycroft has stood, looking grave. 

“There are many erroneous stories about you on the web right now,” he says. “Most of them are irrelevant. But one error must be corrected: the identity of Nero’s mother.”

Sherlock opens his mouth, but Mycroft cuts him off. “You’re under no obligation to tell people who she is. But you must tell them who she is not. The pictures and video of Julia standing on the steps of 221-B, holding Nero—people have gotten entirely the wrong idea. You must make it known that she is a family friend, with no real connection to the boy.”

“We don’t have to worry about Moriarty hurting Julia. Surely her father can protect her.” Indeed, Jools has already intervened. They had not been at Chapel Street ten minutes before he came and took her away. He did not make a single scathing witticism, evidence of the intensity of his displeasure at Julia’s involvement in the chaos at Baker Street.

“He could protect her from Armageddon, if it came to it. But her reputation—” Mycroft stops. He looks even more uncomfortable than when he was edging around Sherlock’s sexual habits.

A year ago, Sherlock would have let Mycroft squirm. But perhaps he is growing more mature, or at least more weary. He doesn’t have the heart for their former games.

“Of course,” he says. “The world thinking Julia and I had a sexual affair, that she’d given birth to my son—I can see why it would be tremendously upsetting.” When Mycroft’s head jerks up: “To her father. I know she’s very dear to him.”

“Yes,” Mycroft says. “She is.” Nobody else would hear the catch in his voice. But Sherlock does, and experiences a strange emotion, one he would not have felt six months ago. He’s hated Mycroft, and he’s feared him. Sometimes (surprisingly often), he’s felt affection for him. He’s never pitied him before. This pity—and the consciousness of everything his brother has done for him—is the only reason Sherlock replies as he does.

“Neville St. Clair could post something. For all intents and purposes, he’s running the website.” Sherlock sighs. “I suppose he’s still here?”

Neville came to Chapel Street so quickly after the news broke, he passed Jools and Julia coming down the front steps. John must have texted him. There was absolutely no other way for Neville to know where they were. He and John had a few minutes of whispered conversation before the PC arrived and Mycroft called John away to the meeting. Sherlock was relieved to see their confab broken up. Whatever Neville was saying to John, it couldn’t be to Sherlock’s benefit. 

“He’s in the kitchen, I believe.” Mycroft taps the screen on his iPad, and it splits into four full-color surveillance images. “Yes, he’s there.” Raising both eyebrows: “With our brother.”

“Ford? How did he get in?”

“Mrs. Thompson, no doubt. She’s delayed the Sunday visit to her daughter at my request.” 

“But why would Ford bother—” Sherlock stops. “Of course. The blog rights again.” 

“The rights aren’t his only objective, judging by the body language,” Mycroft says as he eyes the screen. “Well! Neville St. Clair is no blushing maiden, I’m sure he can look after himself. But Sherrinford’s timing is awkward.”

“Ford is American in his assertiveness. After 25 years in California, that’s not surprising.”

“Our brother has always been too candid. What he feels, what he wants, even as a boy he was shameless. Father used to despair of him. Fortunate that you and I don’t share his weakness.”

“Yes, Father made sure of that,” Sherlock says. “We are very fortunate.”

The brothers share a look, which Mycroft breaks first. “Thank you for speaking to Neville,” he says. “If you’ll excuse me, I have work to do. Today’s events have put me behind schedule.” 

Sherlock leaves him carefully arranging papers in six languages into six stacks. (Obsessive-compulsive, there’s one in every family.) Mycroft works in silence at his father’s huge old bulk of a desk. He breathes in the chill atmosphere, still tinged with that faint note of stale tobacco. Behind him, cold winter sun streams through the windows. Shadows from the panes lay across his face, the shoulders of his bespoke suit, like crushing but intangible bars. 

The image remains with Sherlock, as he goes downstairs to meet the brother who escaped.


	42. Chapter 42

** Sherlock, 6 January 2013 (cont.) **

Sherlock meant to check on Nero before venturing into the kitchen, but Danica saves him a trip upstairs. She accosts him in the lounge. The baby is secured across her chest in a sling, one of the few things she was able to snatch during their hasty retreat from Baker Street. 

Danica was very unhappy about being rousted out of the shower, given two minutes to pack, and then hustled into a big black car. In the hours since, her irritation has not waned. Her cheeks are flushed, eyes snapping. Her hair is bound into a fierce-looking braid at the back of her head. 

The tall blond man at her side may have something to do with her continued ire. He was the one shoving her into the car three hours ago, despite furious struggles and a torrent of Serbian insults. He knew quite well what she was saying to him, but his calm expression never changed. 

“Give me money,” Danica says, sticking out a palm to Sherlock. “Baby need things.”

He reaches into his trouser pocket. “How much?”

“Two hundred.”

Sherlock pauses with his hand in his wallet. “For nappies and formula?” 

“Two hundred. When do you buy nappies? You do not know cost.”

Sherlock must admit she has a point. He hands over the bills, which Danica tucks into her jeans. 

“Wait,” he says, as she turns to go. “Why are you taking Nero? That’s not a good idea.”

“Nobody knows _me._ You are one crazy people want. Nero needs air, or he will not sleep. Will you stay and rock him?” 

“I’m going with them,” her companion says. “Don’t worry.”

The last time Sherlock heard Michael say this, the man was wearing a blood-spattered apron and dissolving a foot in hydrofluoric acid. The image would give most fathers pause, but it comforts Sherlock. Also comforting is the Walther 9mm Michael is wearing in a holster under his jacket. The bulge is subtle but discernible, if you know what to look for. 

“Very well,” Sherlock says. “Don’t let her take too much time. She tends to dawdle.”

 _“She_ is here,” Danica says, hands on hips. “I do not need you to tell me time to take. I do not need him.” She jerks her head at Michael. “I can look after Baby. If you give me a gun—”

“Where would you put it? The baby sling?” Michael says. 

Danica glares up at him. She has to crane her neck, as he towers over her by more than a foot. _“Da Bog da ti zena rodila stonogu pa ceo zivot radio za cipele.”_

“I don’t have a wife,” Michael says. “So I’m not really worried about that happening.”

“Get married!” Danica says. “An ugly woman may want you. Then give me back my Glock.”

“Your Glock is in a dozen pieces at the bottom of Becici Bay. Don’t be stupid, Danica.”

She stamps her foot. “I am not stupid! You are stupid! _Jebo ti konj sa krvavim kurcem sestru na majcinom grobu a ti to kao invalid gledao, dabog dao!”_

“My sister hates horses,” Michael replies. “She wouldn’t let one get close enough to do that to her. Especially not in a graveyard.”

“What?” Sherlock says.

Michael shrugs. “Serbian insults are pretty colorful.”

“Montenegrin!” Danica snaps. _“Samo da te pogledam, odma mi se povraca.”_

Michael’s mouth gives the faintest twitch. “Well, I can’t help that. I’m sorry my face makes you want to vomit. We can pick up some Pepto-Bismol at Tesco.”

Danica throws up her hands. _“Jedi govna, majmune!”_ She spins around, her braid lashing like a whip. Nero gives a little cry as he bounces on her sturdy frame. She marches for the front door without looking back.

“Be vigilant,” Sherlock says. “I don’t have to tell you, Danica is unpredictable.”

Michael looks after her retreating form. “I won’t let her out of my sight.”

Though his voice is as flat as ever, something in it makes Sherlock look at him closely. It occurs to him that Michael might be handsome if his face had any animation. But those even features are blank, his green eyes impenetrable. His emotions and intentions, totally obscured. Mycroft picks his angels carefully and trains them well.

Sherlock leaves this strange seraph to his mission of mercy, and heads downstairs.

The Chapel Street kitchen is the most cheerful room in the house. Located at ground level, the big rectangular room gets plenty of light from three windows which run along the long left-hand wall. The cupboards are golden oak, the floor of a similar hue and material. The appliances are white, most dating from the time of Sherlock’s grandmother, but they were expensive when new and have been exquisitely maintained. On the wall nearest the stairs is a large hearth surrounded by green-gold tiles etched with fruits and flowers. On this cold January day, a fire is crackling there. In the corner next to the hearth is the big breakfast table.

Sherlock ignores the two men seated there in favor of a happier sight. The chatelaine of this sunny domain is hard at work, taking a big glass baking dish out of the oven. Sherlock has only had a few spoonfuls of Weetabix to sustain him, so even in his unsettled state, the scent of Mrs. Thompson’s cooking makes him salivate. 

“Shepherd’s pie,” he says to her. “Thank you.”

Mrs. Thompson is a slender woman of medium height, with a stern, intelligent face. Her hair is iron-grey streaked with white, a striking contrast to her black eyes. As always, she’s wearing a crisply-pressed dress and spotless apron. How the apron stays clean through so much cooking and scrubbing was one of the mysteries of Sherlock’s youth, and remains so to this day.

“I know it’s your favorite,” she says to him. “I thought you could use a bit of cheering up.”

Sherlock feels his cheeks go hot. Mrs. Thompson knows all his previous troubles—it would be difficult not to, given her many years of service. But the thought of her watching the YouTube video makes him wish for a convenient hole to hide in. He stares at her speechlessly, caught between gratitude and humiliation, when a mocking voice breaks the silence.

“Good idea, Mrs. T.,” Ford says. “Make him fat. Then the fangirls won’t bother him.”

Sherlock looks at the breakfast table. Ford is sitting at the short end of the table, in the warmest corner by the hearth. Showily dressed as usual, in charcoal trousers and a cashmere cowlneck of similar hue. Over that is a short leather jacket of electric blue, a color which brings out the warm shades in his changeable eyes. There is an iPad propped up at his elbow, but Sherlock doubts the tablet is drawing much of Ford’s attention, for sitting in the chair diagonal to him is Neville. 

Neville’s clothes are less flamboyant, skinny black jeans and a black jumper with a hole in one sleeve. A faded black peacoat is hung on the chair next to him. But the brightness of his blue eyes and the flush in his cheeks make him colorful enough. He runs a nervous hand through his glossy black curls as he looks at his tablemate. Ford pretends not to notice the scrutiny, but his entire posture is preeningly self-conscious.

 _Ass,_ Sherlock thinks. What he says is, “Thank you, Ford. Your input is always appreciated.”

This is not said in a friendly tone, but Ford jumps up anyway. He traps Sherlock in a crushing, cologne-scented hug. 

“Happy Birthday, kiddo. How does it feel to be famous? I think it feels fucking fabulous.”

“Language, Sherrinford!” Mrs. Thompson says. “And stop suffocating Sherlock.”

“Sorry, baby brother,” Ford says, releasing him. “Got a bit carried away, excitement of the day and all that. We really must go out. Celebrate the big 3-3.” 

Sherlock straightens his collar and recovers his breath. “When I’m not in danger of being torn to pieces by a ravening mob, I’ll consider it.” 

“That’s no way to talk about your public,” Ford says, giving Sherlock’s ear a tweak. “Without them, where would you be?”

“Baker Street, quiet and undisturbed. A chilling prospect.” 

Ford sighs at Sherlock’s lack of enthusiasm and sits back down at the table. Sherlock sits too, taking the chair at the opposite end so it will be difficult for Ford to molest him. 

“Why are you here?” he says. “You’re not getting the blog rights. I made that clear yesterday.”

Ford looks hurt. “I’m here to provide my support. Offer a bit of advice. Is that so wrong?”

“I’m familiar with your support. It’s capricious at best. As for your advice— ” he stops as John’s voice comes blaring from Ford’s iPad.

_“What did you think, Sherlock? That your penis has magical properties? You shag me rotten with your great big cock, and I forget all the horrible shit you’ve done? You’re not that good, nobody is that good, you arrogant bloody—”_

“Sherrinford!” Mrs. Thompson begins, but the sound mercifully cuts off as Ford taps the screen. 

“Seven million hits, and the video’s only been up since noon. At this rate it’s going to beat out ‘Gangnam Style.’” Ford gives Sherlock an arch look. _“Advice._ Sure you don’t need it?”

“I tried to warn them,” Neville says sadly. “I really did. When I spoke to John this morning—”

“Yes,” Sherlock hisses. “I’m aware of your interference.”

Neville stares at him. “What?”

 _“Enough,”_ Mrs. Thompson says, hustling over from the kitchen island, carrying a teapot and cups on a tray. “You boys behave yourselves. Especially you, Sherry Holmes.”

“Sherry?” Neville smirks. “Really?”

“Nobody’s called me that since I was six,” Ford mutters as he pours himself a cuppa. “It’s very bad of you, Mrs. T.”

“This from the boy who stole the key to his father’s liquor cabinet when he was ten years old.”

“It was Mycroft’s idea. Drank half a bottle of Curaçao and puked blue all over me. Greedy git.” 

“You and your brother were incorrigible,” Mrs. Thompson says. “Thick as thieves and twice as sneaky. Like living with a pair of sly little squirrels.” She hustles back to the kitchen work table, where the pie is waiting. She starts ladling heaping portions onto three plates.

“That smells wonderful, Mrs. Thompson,” Neville says. 

“Thank you, lad. But it’s not quite up to my usual standards, I’m afraid. I wasn’t expecting company, and we’re all out of lamb. I’m afraid you boys will have to make do with a beef pie.”

“Brilliant. I love beef pies.” Neville frowns pitifully. “I don’t get much home cooking.”

“Well! That is a shame. You’re welcome here for lunch any time.”

Neville gives her a melting look. “I may just take you up on that.” Mrs. Thompson’s stern features relax into a smile. 

Ford puts his teacup down with a thunk. “Don’t you believe a word,” he says to her. “That one there is always standing people up.”

“I didn’t stand you up,” Neville protests. “I told you I wasn’t going last night.”

Ford looks at him narrowly. “That’s not how I remember it. Your comments were ambiguous.”

Neville digs in his coat pocket for his phone. He taps the screen and holds it up to Ford. _“‘I find you terrifying.’_ That’s ambiguous?”

“Extremely. You also said you found me charming.”

“I didn’t—” Neville stops and taps the screen again, reading: _“‘If you’ll excuse me. I’m working.’_

“It sounded like a joke. Who works on Saturday night?”

Neville taps the screen one more time. _“‘I AM WRITING. GO AWAY.’”_ He raises an eyebrow at Ford, who shrugs. 

“I thought you were playing hard to get.”

“I am hard to get, Ford,” Neville says, as he puts his phone away. “Very hard.”

“Not according to the blokes at the Shadow Lounge. They’re thinking of naming a bathroom stall in your honor. Gold plaque on the door, a rug on the floor. Since you spend so much time on your knee—OWW!” 

Sherrinford cuts off as Mrs. Thompson gives him a sharp box to the ear. He glares at her, pushing his artfully tousled locks in place. “My God, woman! I’m not ten years old, you know.”

“You had better manners when you were ten,” Mrs. Thompson says, putting a plate in front of him. “Now save your breath to cool your pie.”

The plate is heaped full of deliciousness, but Ford wrinkles his nose at it. “I don’t eat red meat. It makes you fat.”

“You could do with a pound or two,” she says. “Look at you! Drying up on the bone.”

“I am _not_ drying up. I look 30!”

“Of course you do, lad.” Mrs. Thompson’s dark eyes are twinkling. “That’s why nobody stood you up last night.”

While Ford stares at her in silent fury, she puts plates in front of Sherlock and Neville. “Eat up before it gets cold. I’m going to take a plate to Mycroft in his study, then I really must do some cleaning in the nursery. It’s all dust.” She walks back towards the work table, her sensible heels clicking like castanets on the wood floor. Moving with her usual efficiency, within a minute she’s fixed a tray with Mycroft’s pie and tea and headed upstairs.

“Wow,” Neville says, after he swallows another mouthful. “She’s amazing. How old is she?”

Sherlock shrugs. “She’s always been here.”

“Because she’s a bloody cyborg!” Ford snaps. “Father had her made in a lab somewhere.”

“Shh, sweetie,” Neville says to him. “That’s hunger talking. Eat your pie.”

Amazingly enough, Ford does, though he’s scowling. For a few moments there is nothing but the sound of sipping, chewing, and swallowing. Mrs. Thompson’s Earl Grey is nearly robust enough to be a meal on its own, but her shepherd’s pie is the true masterpiece. Perfectly diced bits of buttery beef, mingled with a medley of carrots, celery, peas, and onion. The vegetables are soft but not mushy, spiced with garlic and Worcester sauce. The filling simmers in a rich brown broth thickened with tomato paste. Spread atop all of this goodness is a layer of crispy potatoes, threaded through with golden veins of cheddar cheese. 

When Sherlock was in Los Angeles, he used to dream of this dish. There was plenty of food at Ford’s house, but nothing like Mrs. Thompson’s shepherd’s pie. Cocaine also kills the appetite: After two years in California, Sherlock had dropped more than a stone. Mrs. Thompson spent months stuffing him with all manner of delicious things before she was finally satisfied. 

Neville drains his cup and pushes his empty plate back, sighing. “Good Lord. That was better than an orgasm. How are all of you not gargantuan, growing up like this?”

“Remind me to show you a picture of my brother Mycroft at 13,” Ford says. “Orson Welles in an Eton tailcoat.” He drops his own fork with an air of finality, though his plate is half-full. 

“Aren’t you going to finish that?” Neville says. 

“Hell no. Be my guest.” Ford pushes the plate over. 

Neville looks at it regretfully, and pushes it back. “Better not. I really should see about John. I meant to go as soon as I knew the meeting was over, but shepherd’s pie seduced me.” 

“Wait a moment. We need to talk,” Sherlock says.

Neville looks at him uncertainly. “This is a first. But okay.”

It would be difficult to ask Neville for a favor under any circumstances, and after this morning’s events Sherlock is feeling more tongue-tied than normal. But finally, he spits it out. “Mycroft has a request. He wants you to post something on the blog. You should tell everyone that Julia Siviter is not Nero’s mother.”

“The girl on the steps was little Julie Siviter?” Ford says. “Wow. She grew up cute.”

“Not according to the fans,” Neville sighs. “I’ve already had to start banning people for calling her fat. Not to mention some of the stuff about Nero—”

Sherlock stills. “What about Nero?”

Neville shifts uncomfortably. “Well, um, the fans don’t like him.” 

“What? How can that be? They don’t even know who he is.”

“It’s pretty damn obvious he’s yours. You were the one holding him, and he’s your little clone.”

“But—he’s a baby.”

“Not to them, Sherlock. To them he’s a symbol of betrayal. The fans think you cheated on your soulmate with some tart. They’re not happy about that. I mean, they are _not happy._ You’d think the fake death would be the big problem, and I suppose it is to the general public. But your true blue fans? Nope. It’s the baby. A few kind souls suggested that you and John used a surrogate, but most think you’re a big old slut. Julia, too.”

Sherlock rubs his temples. “That’s insane. John and I were not lovers. I wasn’t unfaithful. Bloody hell, he was the one with all the girlfriends!”

“Well, you obviously had _one,”_ Ford says. 

“Shut up, Sherrinford!” Sherlock glares at him before returning to Neville. “Post on the blog.”

“And say what?”

“Have you been paying attention? Julia Siviter is not the baby’s mother. Don’t even release the baby’s name. Just establish maternity—or lack thereof.”

“Are you fucking insane?” 

“Excuse me?”

Neville leans back in the chair, arms crossed over his chest. “You’ve told the fans nothing. Not one goddamn thing. What they do know is only because you and John lost your minds and had a screaming domestic in front of God and everybody. Now you want me to take away one of the few things they think they do know, and give them nothing to replace it. Jesus Christ, have _you_ been paying attention? That is not how you treat an audience.”

“He’s right,” Ford says. “You want to take their narrative away? You have to give them one that’s better. A lot better. Personally, I’d run with the surrogate story.”

Neville nods. “If you don’t want to tell them about Irene Adler, that probably is the best way. I can tell them you and John wanted a child and rented an oven to put your bun in. All the hot gay couples are doing it these days.”

Ford leans forward eagerly. “Oh, yeah. Have you seen Neil Patrick Harris’ twins? I don’t even like kids, but those two are fucking cute. NPH’s Q-score has gone through the roof. The fans will turn right around if they think the baby belongs to you _and_ John.”

Neville bites his lip thoughtfully. “Hmm. That could even explain the St. Barts jump. Things had gotten too dangerous with Moriarty, and somebody had to look after poor Nero—”

“So Sherlock fled,” Ford says. “Leaving John behind in London to make the death seem real.” 

“The separation was so painful, but they did it for the sake of their son—”

“—and John bravely bore up, beginning a one-man campaign to clear his true love’s name—”

“—two-man campaign, thanks very much. But yes, it was incredibly brave of him. Brave of Sherlock too, hiding away with their little boy—

“—but now things have cooled off. So here they are, reunited at last. It’s a bit Lifetime movie, but fuck! People love Lifetime movies.” 

“Wait, what about the fight? ‘All the horrible shit Sherlock has done,’ remember?”

“The _strain,_ darling. The terrible strain of separation. John has been at his wit’s end. But a few paparazzi shots of them pushing Nero in the park? Everybody will forget about the fight. Or if they do remember, it will just be the big penis/bendy bit.” 

“Put the baby in a tiny deerstalker, stick him in the pram. _John and Sherlock couldn’t have murdered Moriarty! Look how cute their baby is!”_ Fucking brilliant.”

“Of course it is. We’re fucking geniuses.” 

Neville and Ford grin at each other.

“Liars,” Sherlock says. “You’re fucking liars.”

Neville frowns at him. “That’s harsh, mate.”

“We’re _storytellers,”_ Ford says impatiently. “Listen to me, Sherlock. Do you want to be able to walk the streets of London again? This is how that gets accomplished.”

“If Moriarty comes back?” Sherlock says. “What then?”

Ford shrugs. “I don’t care if he is an evil genius. He can’t compete with Sherlock Jr. in a teeny-tiny deerstalker. If he tries, the ladies will tear him apart like Maenads on meth.” 

“Even if I went along—which is unlikely,” Sherlock says after a second’s consideration, “John would never agree to press releases and staged photo ops. He’s a private person.”

“He’s the one who started the blog,” Neville says. “He can’t be totally against sharing. Look, I’ll talk to him. I’m sure I can make him see reason.”

Sherlock looks at him for a moment. “The same way you talked to him this morning?”

Neville blinks. “What?”

Sherlock didn’t mean to say it. He meant to stand on his dignity. But after a promising start, it’s been such an awful day. His proposal was rejected, and his resurrection happened in the most humiliating way. Who can be blamed for these ordeals? Who was the first person John spoke with today? Who is so eager to speak with him now, and pour more poison in his ear? Neville may look like one of Mrs. Thompson’s Hummels, but he’s no china doll. Sherlock has read everything the man has published, he’s seen all of Mycroft’s reports. He’s glimpsed the real person behind those melting blue eyes: cunning and debauched, with a vicious way with words.

So Sherlock does speak. He must. “You think I don’t realize that you’re the one who goaded John into his outburst? I’m not a fool, Neville St. Clair. I’m well aware of your scheme.”

Neville’s brows have drawn together. “What scheme?”

“You want John back. You think if you drive enough of a wedge between us, you’ll succeed.”

“Come on,” Ford says. “You can’t really believe—”

“Oh, I’m sure he does.” Neville’s voice has become quiet. “It’s easier than believing the truth. Isn’t it, Sherlock?” 

Neville has gone pale with anger, his angular features looking much more mature without the brilliant coloring that usually softens them. His blue eyes are narrowed, fixing Sherlock with an icy stare. Suddenly, you can see the man who wrote all those scathing editorials. 

“You faked your death,” he says. “Do you understand what that means? Have you ever sat down and really thought about it? You made John watch you die. For six months, you let him believe you were dead. You left him alone, mourning you. Loving you, and regretting every single day that he didn’t tell you. Hating himself, working out all the ways he could have saved you. Everything he could have done differently. Then, when it was convenient, you just—came back. The fact that he didn’t shoot you on sight is proof of how much he loves you. But if he’s still angry, that’s not on me. That’s on you, Sherlock. _You faked your death.”_

Sherlock says nothing. He is more speechless than he has ever been, in a lifetime of inarticulate moments. He wants to look away but he can’t, caught by Neville’s accusing gaze. They’re close enough that he can smell the man’s cologne. But this time, Neville isn’t the one who’s Guilty.

Finally, Neville looks away. He stands, grabbing his coat and shoving his arms into the sleeves. “I’m going to speak to John now. He needs me. That’s the point of everything I’ve said to him today. It has nothing to do with sex, you idiot. I was worried about my friend. Are you his friend? Have you ever been? I don’t think so.” 

He turns and strides across the kitchen. When he gets to the stairs he stops, turning back.

“If John says yes, I’ll write the cover story and post it. For _him._ Ford, if you want to help with it, text me. Sherlock, stay the fuck away from me.” 

Then Neville is gone, taking the stairs two at a time. 

Once his footsteps have died away, Ford turns to Sherlock. “I’m sorry, but that was hot.”

Sherlock puts his head in his hands. “Shut up, Sherrinford,” he whispers.

“Poor bastard.” Ford’s voice is not unkind. “But you’re the one who wanted to get married.”

Sherlock’s head jerks up. “Mycroft told you?”

“Um, no. All I had to do was read the blog. You’ve been married for going on three years now. Kind of a shame that you and John somehow missed out on the shagging part. I blame him as much as I blame you. Bloody closet case.”

“John is a good man,” Sherlock says slowly. “I’ve done terrible things to him.”

“Yeah, faking your death was a dick move. But so was screwing all those chicks right under your nose. How many girlfriends did John have? He’s not totally guiltless, though he plays the martyr really well. You’re going to have to break him of that habit. Guilt trips will kill your sex life quicker than somebody getting fat.” 

“We don’t have a sex life. We had a night. Which all signs indicate will not be repeated.”

“Yes, and you wouldn’t have had that, if I hadn’t practically thrown you on top of him.” Ford shakes his head in amazement. “Why is it so hard for you and John to act like normal people? There’s nothing to it. You fancy someone. You let him know. He gives you the nod or he tells you to fuck off. You used to be better at this, kiddo. You were quite the lothario in LA.”

“I was an addict in LA,” Sherlock says. “I don’t need advice from you. You can’t even seduce Neville St. Clair, and the whole city has had him.”

Ford smirks. “You are rusty, aren’t you? What do you think that last bit was about?”

“What—asking you to text him? That was about the blog.”

“Oh my God. And you call yourself a detective! Baby brother, let me tell you a story. In an hour or two, I’m going to text Neville as he requested. I’ll suggest dinner at a nice restaurant. Vanilla Black, maybe. I’ve heard their goat’s cheese and toasted cauliflower _mille feuille_ is to die for. But I won’t get to try it, because Nev’s playing hard to get. He’s going to text me back saying he doesn’t want any dinner. Then I’ll suggest coming over to his place. He’ll agree this time. I’ll arrive around 8, and we’ll work for an hour or so, no more. The cover story is mostly written, which he well knows. We’ll chat a bit, have some wine. I’ll bring a nice organic _pinot bianco,_ nothing too heady. Then—” Ford pauses, shrugging. “Then I’ll fuck his brains out.”

“You seem very sure of yourself.”

“Hercule Poirot of shagging, remember?” Ford says with a hand to his chest. “If Nev is as good as I think—and I hear he’s very good—I may go back for seconds, even thirds. Bit gluttonous, but who could blame me? I bet sweet little Nev tastes just like a peppermint latte.” 

Ford allows himself a moment of lascivious contemplation, grey eyes aglow. Then he grins at Sherlock. “When I go home in a few days, I’ll have a nice memory of my time in this gloomy city. No muss, no fuss, no flaming rows. _Marriage,_ Sherlock: You can have it.” 

He stands, tucking his iPad away in its leather case. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got some things to attend to before I get laid. An hour on the treadmill at least, running off that sodding shepherd’s pie. Good old Mrs. T.! Now I remember why I ran screaming from this place when I was 17.” 

Before he goes, he puts a brotherly hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “Cheer up. John will come around. If your dramas were enough to scare him off, he would have been gone years ago. In the meantime, Nev and I are going to write you out of this mess. Leave it to us.”

 _“Stories,”_ Sherlock says. “They’re all you ever think about.”

“Nope. Sometimes I think about sex and money.” Ford leans down, kissing Sherlock on the top of his head. “I’ll text you. We still have to celebrate your birthday. Thirty-three! How did you get to be older than me?” 

Ford leaves, a cloud of self-satisfaction and Chanel cologne trailing behind him. There seems to be more air in the room once he’s gone. 

Sherlock stacks up all the plates, taking them to the sink. Mrs. Thompson would do it, but he can’t stand to leave another mess behind him today. 

He heads upstairs to the third floor. Mycroft has housed his guests logically. John is in one of the rooms overlooking the street, while Sherlock is in his old bedroom further down the hall. Danica and Nero are on the fourth floor, which has always held the nursery and nanny’s room.

As he passes John’s door, Sherlock can hear muffled voices coming from within. Neville St. Clair no doubt, telling John all the horrible things Sherlock has said and done lately. Sherlock knows he’s still gutted, but he’s so tired that he recognizes the emotion rather than feeling it.

He spends some time in the loo. Mrs. Thompson’s cooking does sit heavy upon the gut, and his digestion is already frayed from stress. He considers a shower but can’t muster the energy.

When he emerges from the bath, he notices a small, fluffy, parti-colored creature crouched in the hall outside his bedroom door. Sherlock looks down into furious gold eyes.

_Liar! We knew the Beast would return. We knew it! We will have our vengeance. We will tear him limb from limb. We will—_

“Not now, Bess,” Sherlock snaps. The little cat stares at him, ears turning back in confusion as he opens his door, quickly slamming it so she can’t follow.

He strips his clothes off, reaching into his bag for one item he made sure to get during the flight from Baker Street. The crimson dressing gown is not his best, but it is his most comfortable. The stiff wool has had 93 years to break in: It’s as soft as eiderdown. He sighs with relief as he wraps it around his naked body, and lies down.

Curled on the bed is Bess’s nemesis, the only creature Sherlock can stand to be with right now. He stretches out beside Faust, burying his nose in the cat’s lush fur. Faust smells like soil and old leaves, which means Mrs. Thompson has let him out for a prowl in the back garden. It’s not at all an unpleasant smell. Along with the cat’s rumbly purr, a combination as soothing as ether. 

When the tension in his chest has eased a bit, Sherlock turns on his back, staring at the ceiling. “This is such a cock-up. How did it go so wrong?”

_You faked your death. That tends to throw a spanner in the works._

Sherlock turns his head, looking at Faust. “I had to do it. Why does nobody understand that?”

_Do you understand? Not what you did, but why. Strategy, lad: You’re a bit histrionic, but certainly no psychopath. You had the patience to hold your ground. Why didn’t you?_

“Dying was easier,” Sherlock says softly. 

_Than what?_

“Facing him. I couldn’t take it anymore.”

 _Who? James Moriarty or John Watson?_

Sherlock stares at the cat. He’s hoping the spell will break, the feline flopping over and asking for belly rubbings. But Faust keeps watching him with his green green eyes.

_John terrifies you, doesn’t he? What he could do to you, how deep he could get. That’s why you ran. It’s why you refused to see the truth about him for all those years. Your father trained you well. You’ll never give John a true emotion. You’d rather die._

“I do love him. I made love to him.”

 _You had sex with him. Not the same thing. Any normal person could tell you that. Even Ford told you. Though he’s far from normal: I hope you’re not listening too closely to his advice._

“Why not? He’s the happiest of all of us.”

_Ford is only happy in fiction. He escapes inside his stories, but one day they won’t protect him. He will be forced to face his real self. It won’t be a happy epiphany, Sherlock. Don’t follow in his footsteps. Tell John the truth. Let yourself feel it._

“If I can’t?” Sherlock whispers. “What then?”

_If you can’t feel, you can’t be a husband or a father. You’ll lose John and Nero, like Siger lost his family. But you’ll be worse than him—you don’t have that much patience. You’ll be Moriarty._

Sherlock puts his hands over his face. He does feel something now, the cold black dread of six months ago. It’s like the opposite of love. Not hate, but the absence of hope. 

After a moment, he pulls back. He forces himself to open his eyes.

He looks around his old room. His gaze takes in the blue wallpaper, the pictures in their silver frames. It ticks over the wardrobe, the window with its wavy panes. He looks at the desk by the door, where he’s studied for a hundred tests, written a library of papers and reports. 

Great-Uncle Evelyn sat at that desk on his last, despairing night. Perhaps he, too, looked around his room. Evie had traveled so far, he’d lost so much. His lover torn to pieces at the Somme, his precious violin stolen. Morphine filled the emptiness, but not for long. That last night he looked around, and then he picked up the gun. For Evie knew, you see. Wherever he went in the world, whatever happened to him there, he would never be free. He would always be back in this room, where nothing ever changes. You can’t escape Chapel Street. Its chill comes with you. 

Sherlock buries his face in Faust’s back, blocking out the room. He stays that way until the shaking stops. Slowly, he feels himself grow limp. Completely enervated.

He shouldn’t be able to sleep. He doesn’t want to, not until he’s solved this puzzle. But purrs and shepherd’s pie are his undoing. One small mercy in this pitiless day: There are no dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once more, I've made a blog post which details some fun behind-the-scenes information. If you like to see how the sausage is made, it's worth checking out!
> 
>  
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> [Author Notes at Dreamwidth](http://chase820.dreamwidth.org/322721.html)
> 
>  
> 
> [Author Notes at Livejournal](http://chase820.livejournal.com/332366.html)
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>  
> 
>  Links to other notes can be found at the end of chapters 5, 12, 20, 23, 28, 29, 32, 38, and 47.


	43. Chapter 43

** John, 6 January 2013 **

When everything fell apart, they were lucky that Julia was there. Even burdened with a baby, she had the fortitude to push them into the house before the first of the fury reached them. 

Some of the fans flooded into Speedy’s, though all egress between the cafe and the house is sealed by heavy locked doors. But John and the others could still hear the crowd, screaming and pounding on the door of 221-B. All of them raced up the stairs and into the lounge, Julia giving the now-crying Nero back to his father so she could dig her phone out of her purse. Within ten seconds she was connected to the only person who had a prayer of rescuing them. 

Mycroft arrived with his people within a quarter hour. They came in through an entrance which could only be reached by taking an alley on a parallel street, then circling around the garden and pushing aside a thorny shrub to reveal a hidden door to the cellar of 219. Inside of it is another door which connects directly to the cellar of 221. John didn’t ask why Mycroft knew about the secret entrance, or why he had the keys. 

Call it shock or terminal embarrassment, but John could only watch as Sherlock and Mycroft raced around shoving things into bags, debating a mile a minute. Fairly soon they lapsed into French, but John wasn’t following the conversation even before that. Everything since the first wave of camera flashes seemed to be happening to someone else, as if this were a program on telly he was watching. He could feel his heart squeezing in his chest, drops of perspiration dripping down his forehead, but the reactions didn’t seem to be a part of his own body. 

Mycroft stopped questioning Sherlock long enough to notice John, who had taken refuge in his armchair, clutching the Union Jack pillow. 

“Raphael,” Mycroft said. “See to him.” 

John looked up into a face which could have come from a Goya painting, olive-skinned and dark-eyed. Raphael put two fingers on the side of John’s neck for a moment. Then he reached in his messenger bag. He held his hand out, and sitting in the palm were two hexagonal pills.

“Inderal? I don’t need anxiety meds.”

“Your pulse is 170, and you’re just sitting there. Take the pills.” The man sounded like he didn’t give a damn, but those black eyes never wavered. John has seen eyes like that before. Sniper’s eyes.

He took the pills. Raphael nodded and then clutched John’s arm in a steely grip, pulling him out of the armchair. He was hustled downstairs to the ground floor. Through the cellars, out the rear hidden door, across the garden and into the alley, and soon enough he was pushed into the back of a big black SUV with dark-tinted windows. Raphael got in the front seat, next to a tall blond man sitting behind the wheel.

On the seat beside John was Danica, scowling furiously.

“What is happening?” She looked daggers at the back of the blond man’s head. “This _supak_ tell me nothing. He grab me naked in shower! If I have a gun, I would shoot him.”

The man turned around. He would be good-looking if his face weren’t devoid of anything like expression. His voice came out equally flat. “I told you to get out. You wouldn’t listen.”

“You—oh! I do not know English! _Pipati,_ that is how I would say it in Montenegro.”

 _“Groped_ you,” he said helpfully. “That’s the English word. But I didn’t.”

“You grab my tits!”

“Not on purpose. You wiggled.” 

_“Jebo ti jeza u ledja,”_ she spit. “You understand me?”

“Sure. But let’s think about this. If I was into screwing hedgehogs, would I grab your tits?”

Danica gave a roar of anger and then slumped into the corner of the seat, muttering to herself.

For a split-second, John saw something spark in the man’s green eyes. Then nothing, as they resumed what must be habitual blankness. He and Raphael were clearly not related, the blond man as Caucasian as they come, Raphael almost Latin in his swarthiness. But the calm made them seem alike. A fraternity of indifference. 

Normally, John would have found the men deeply creepy, but by then Raphael’s beta blockers were kicking in and he was calm, too. Not the glassy shock of earlier, just more centered within himself. The mood would last for a while, as the SUV filled up with Sherlock and the others and they headed to their destination. John’s text to Neville was more ironic than frantic. 

He didn’t register any surprise when he saw Harry’s red Range Rover parked outside 19 Chapel Street, waiting for them. Of course, Mycroft had probably called her as soon as Julia called him. 

Mycroft’s home was not quite what he expected. Stately Wayne Manor? Sure. Hollowed-out volcano? Maybe. But the Georgian rowhouse in Belgravia, prim and posh and utterly blending in with the identical houses around it, was never a possibility. 

Once inside, John looked around the lounge, taking in its faded Victorian furniture and grim daguerreotypes. Another day he would have been fascinated, but today he was only calm. 

Calm, he announced that he was okay, even when Neville arrived and told them about the video. Sherlock, Mycroft, and Harry watched it in the office, but John stayed in the lounge with Neville. He nodded at his friend’s reassurances without really hearing them. He knew from the increasing intensity of his sister’s profanities that the video was bad, but Raphael’s drugs were the best. 

His indifference lasted until the meeting with the Police Commissioner. Harry, with her usual focused ferocity, had warned him not to say a fucking thing. John agreed with a shrug. 

Some minutes into the meeting, he took out his phone to while away the time. Curious but still calm, he brought up YouTube. He wanted to see the video. Playing on the tiny phone screen, muted in deference to the meeting, the video wouldn’t bother him. He was sure of it.

He was wrong.

The video was taken by a superfan whose original purpose was to film Sherlock’s birthday memorial. If the fan had been standing at a slightly different angle, she might have missed the fight entirely. But as fate would have it, she was in the perfect place to see John come running down the steps and bump into Julia. She focused on them immediately: Julia would have been an unknown, but after all those news accounts the fans knew John by sight. She zoomed in just in time to catch Sherlock bursting out of the house, Nero in his arms.

John sat on the yellow guest chair in Mycroft’s nicotine-scented office, his heart pounding again as he saw video!Sherlock grab video!John. Video!Sherlock and video!John started screaming at each other like a pair of enraged chimps. Muted, the words were not intelligible, but John heard them anyway. Frozen in his seat, face burning, he knew what video!Sherlock and video!John, those two fucking idiots, had screamed for all the world to hear.

_“You shag me rotten with your great big cock, and I forget all the horrible shit you’ve done? You’re not that good, you arrogant bloody bastard.”_

_“I’m sure your despair was palpable! How could I have missed it? I suppose I got distracted by all those times you were coming your head off!”_

_“You seduced me, you sociopathic cunt! Why am I surprised? Crazy people are always the best shags, aren’t they? I got bloody Sherlocked!”_

_“Yes, my crimes are unforgivable. Shagging a man who is madly in love with me. One who’s been taking it up the arse for_ twenty fucking years—” 

Oh God, Oh God, Oh God. If a pit had opened in the middle of the office floor right then, John would have leapt into it without a sound, except perhaps the faintest whisper of gratitude.

Twenty years of discretion, decades spent building a career as a doctor and man of action, dozens of girlfriends including one quasi-marriage, all for nothing. 

John Watson is fucking Sherlock Holmes. To be totally accurate, John Watson is being fucked by Sherlock Holmes. Everything he is, everything he has done in his previous 37 years of life, is meaningless. Because John is fucking Sherlock Holmes. John is a queer, a fruit, a nancy, a poof. Now and forever, that’s what he is. He took it up the ass and came his head off. Don’t believe it? Look on YouTube, it’s there. Now and forever.

John didn’t just give up his heterosexual privilege. He machine-gunned it into a thousand pieces, set the pieces on fire, and pissed on the ashes. 

For what purpose did he do this? To fuck Sherlock Holmes. To be fucked by Sherlock Holmes, in every sense of that word. But at least Sherlock wants to marry him. Why not? It would save so much motherfucking paperwork.

These were the thoughts running through John’s mind when the meeting broke up. By this point, he was not calm. Sherlock seemed shocked when John turned on Greg Lestrade and (again) on Sherlock himself, but he shouldn’t have been. 

They’ve risked nothing. They’ve lost nothing. Privilege of all sorts, Sherlock and Greg have it. John has nothing.

If he’d stayed any longer, he’d have punched somebody and then burst into tears, beta blockers be damned. So he ran, pounding up the stairs and shutting himself in his room. Now, an hour later, John lies on this narrow bed, staring at the ceiling. He knows he’s one Taylor Swift song away from completing his transformation into a weepy teenage girl. But he can’t move. 

His sad maunderings are interrupted by a tapping at the door. 

“Can I come in?” a familiar voice says.

“Only if you’ve got Midol and chocolate.”

A tousled head pokes through, frowning. “What?”

“Nothing. Come in, Nev.” John sits up, sighing.

Neville takes a few steps in, shutting the door behind him. “What the hell’s wrong with that cat?”

“What cat?”

“The little tortie in the hallway. She looks like she’s plotting murder.”

“She’s Mycroft Holmes’ cat. She probably is.”

Neville plops on the end of the bed, grinning at John. “You’re bitterly ironic. I’m relieved. Zombie John was beginning to worry me.”

“Oh, I’m just ducky. I’m fucking Sherlock Holmes! Didn’t you hear?” 

Neville pats John’s knee soothingly. “I know, love. But I also hear that your boyfriend is well-hung and insanely bendy! I guess he’d have to be, since he’s also a cunt.” When John blinks: “Sherlock and I had words just now. It was bound to happen sooner or later.”

“What happened?”

“He’s jealous of our eternal friendship. Also you and I fucked that one time, so there’s that. But mostly, I think he’s just worried.”

John picks at the musty quilt. “Good. He should be.” 

“Okay. At the risk of repeating myself, what happened with you two? You don’t have to get graphic with the details. Though if you want to, I can take out my phone and start filming—”

“Fuck off.” 

“Fine, fine. But do you know how many hits the Baker Street Meltdown has gotten at YouTube? Many hits, J. **Sherlocksgirl69** or whatever her bloody name is will be sending her kids to uni on the ad revenue. Since you and I are both poor and tacky—” 

“Fuck. Off.” 

But Neville is grinning at him, big blue eyes a-twinkle, and though it should be impossible right now, John’s mouth can’t help quirking. He sighs, leaning his head against the wall and banging it a few times. “Fucking hell. This is such a disaster. Last night wasn’t bad at all—it was pretty bloody great, actually. But today . . . ” he trails off.

Neville just nods, waiting for him to go on.

So John tells him. Everything from walking in on his destroyed bedroom last night to running out of Mycroft’s office this afternoon. Neville is mostly silent through it all, asking only brief, gentle questions whenever John trails off or gets tangled up. John is shaking with adrenaline and fatigue by the time it’s over, but he also feels strangely better. Unburdened. No wonder Neville has made a living freelancing since he was 20. He’s one hell of an interviewer.

Once John finishes, Nev still doesn’t speak. He’s biting his bottom lip, looking puzzled.

John uses his toe to give Neville a poke. “What?”

“Sorry,” he says, coming back with a blink. “I was just trying to work out if Sherlock fucking and sucking you simultaneously counts as one shag or two. Hope to God that little flourish doesn’t catch on. My whole statistical system would be at risk.”

“You are a colossal pillock.” 

“Love you too, sweetie.” Neville blows him a kiss. “In all seriousness, poor you! Not much of a honeymoon, was it?” 

John crosses his arms over his chest. “Did you miss the part where Sherlock proposed and I told him to shove it?”

“Nope, I got that. But why?”

“Because _I’m not his bleeding wife._ It’s not my job to buy his Weetabix and vet his clients and write up his bloody cases and—”

“But don’t you like doing those things?”

John stares at Neville a moment. “What?”

“Seriously. Don’t you like taking care of Sherlock? If not, why have you been doing it all these years? Now you have the whole package, even sex and the offer of a ring. So why are you mad? I mean, I thought it was the whole faked death thing. That would make sense. But hearing you just now, what you really sound angry about is Sherlock’s, um, _Sherlockishness._ Him being an insensitive prick, which he’s always been; taking you for granted, which he always does, and—”

Neville stops. He looks at John, eyes narrow. “You don’t think he loves you. Do you?”

John looks down, suddenly finding the faded plaid quilt extraordinarily interesting. 

“J. Look at me. Is that what you think?”

John can feel his eyes prickling, but he blinks the tears back. He is _not_ a girl. No matter what all those Tumblr manips say. His voice comes out harsh and strident. Manly.

“He faked his death. He had a baby with someone else. He hasn’t said a word about how he feels, not before we fucked or after. _I_ did. I took a risk, I’m now a mincer in front of the whole sodding world, but him? Sherlock hasn’t risked anything. Nobody cares if he’s bent, because he’s a rich gorgeous genius with a great big cock. Which means he could have almost anybody he wants, so why does he want me? Because it’s convenient, that’s why. I mean, he proposed because he doesn’t want to do paperwork! Either he doesn’t give a shit, or he’s a total sociopath which means he still doesn’t give a shit. For fuck’s sake, what else am I supposed to think?”

Neville nods slowly. “That was really well put. You know how to sum things up, don’t you? You should say it just that way when you talk to Sherlock.”

_“What?”_

“Come on. You two have to hash this out. You’ve seen each other’s O-faces, no point keeping secrets now.”

“Why does it have to be me? Sherlock cocked everything up, Sherlock wants to get married. If he’s so worried, why are you the one asking how I feel? Where the fuck is he?”

“Having shepherd’s pie with Ford, last time I checked.”

John bangs his head against the wall. “Wonderful. Another sociopath in the building.”

“Ford is more of a narcissist.” Neville looks around. “This was his room, I bet. Unless Mycroft liked goth rock and Stanley Kubrick when he was a teenager, which I doubt.” 

John looks around. He hasn’t considered the décor, too wrapped up in his grievances to really notice the room. It’s tiny, just space for a twin bed, a desk, and a bookcase. 

Most of the dull silver wallpaper is covered in posters. They contrast oddly with the Victorian furniture and general mustiness. Some posters are for long-closed clubs, like Camden Palace and the Batcave. Others for bands that had their last hit long ago, Oingo Boingo, Siouxsie and the Banshees, the Psychedelic Furs. Dead artists from a dead decade: Keith Haring and Jean-Michel Basquiat. Of course, there are also movie posters. Scorsese, Godard, and Hitchcock are all represented. But Kubrick has the most—five posters, the biggest hung right next to the bed. 

John doesn’t know how he didn’t see it. Seeing it now gives him a funny nostalgic twinge. It’s the same poster Toby Gregson had hanging in his bedroom in Slough all those years ago.

 _Being the adventures of a young man whose principle interests are rape, ultra-violence and Beethoven._ John blinks at Alex’s knowing leer and shining blade. 

The walls of Ford’s former room are a riot of color and cultural reference, but the effect is not cheerful. Not in this house. There’s something desperate about it: You can almost feel a vibrant young mind pushing frantically against the grey walls closing in. John once had similar impulses in Slough, but he was only there two years. Before that he was free, if neglected. How would it be to grow up in a place like this? When you came home from the strictures of boarding school, what waited for you was—this. 

How you would have struggled. Twisting in your restraints, like Alex enduring his tortures in _Clockwork Orange._ How long did Sherrinford Holmes plot his escape? What did it cost him?

Everything. The cost was everything. Even his name. 

“Christ,” Neville whispers. “Those poor bastards.” 

Of course, Nev’s gotten all this. He has the writer’s capacity for empathy, and he’s a much better writer than John. 

“When I first got here, I had the weirdest feeling of déjà vu,” Neville says. “I couldn’t figure it out, but now I get it. The house in the film of _The Shadow Son_ is this house. Ford recreated it point for point, right down to the wallpaper. Do you think Mycroft sent him photos? I bet he didn’t. I bet Ford didn’t keep photos, either. He did it from memory. Like the images had been—burned in. That film isn’t a tribute to his mum. It’s a fucking exorcism.”

 _It didn’t work,_ John thinks, remembering the horrors of one Halloween. _Not for Sherlock._

Three brothers grew up in this house. All of them went through the same thing, but it wasn’t quite the same thing. Sherrinford and Mycroft went through it together. Sherlock was alone. As angry as John is, he can’t help feeling something about that. Empathy is too much of a habit with him, especially when it comes to Sherlock. 

Neville scrubs at his curls until they’re sticking out in all directions. “Ford’s been gone what, 25 years? His room hasn’t been changed at all. God, even Faulkner would find this place creepy.” He looks towards the window, face pale. “Chapel Street is cursed. Brian Epstein, the Beatles’ manager? He OD’d five doors down, at Number 24.” 

He stands. “I have to get out of here. I’m going to have a hard time facing Ford tonight as it is.” 

“Tonight?”

“Um, yeah. I told Ford to text me and we’d get together to work on your story.”

“Story?”

“Oh shit. I forgot to tell you.” 

Neville faces him, hands clasped, like a man giving an important presentation. He proceeds to tell John about the proposed plan for reclaiming his and Sherlock’s reputations.

After he’s done, John is silent. 

“So?” Neville says, bouncing nervously on his toes. “What do you think?”

“Dunno. I’m still wrapping my head around the tiny deerstalker bit.” John shakes his head. “For this to work, I’d have to claim Nero as mine. Like he was something planned, not the bastard fruit of Sherlock’s fling with a lesbian dominatrix.”

“Yep. That’s the tricky bit. You up for it?”

“I don’t know.” John pauses, poking at his feelings like one pokes at a sore tooth. “I don’t.”

“John, you can’t hate a baby.”

“I don’t hate him! Shit, Nero’s all right. One has to admire his single-minded pursuit of dinner. I could even like him if he’d stop being a dick.”

“You may have to let that one go. He is a Holmes.” Neville is smiling, but his blue eyes are gazing at John soberly. “If Moriarty comes back, this could save your collective bacon. Even if he doesn’t, you have to tell the fans something they can swallow. If _you_ can swallow it.”

“It’s another risk. Another concession on my part. When does Sherlock risk something?”

“Dunno. You’ll have to ask him that. I do think it’s gonna have to be you that makes the first move, though. I mean, _look at this place._ Emotionally healthy people have never lived here.”

“I’m not sure how emotionally healthy I am,” John says. “But I see your point.”

Neville squeezes his shoulder. “You’ll work it out, you always do. If you didn’t throw Sherlock to the hounds up in Dartmoor, and if you didn’t shoot him in the face at New Year’s, you’ll deal with him now. And hey, big penis! Your man is not without a saving grace.”

He walks towards the door. “I’m gonna skedaddle. I have my own date with a Holmes. The big penis thing, you think it’s a family trait?”

“Nev—”

“I kid, we’re working on the cover story. This is a work date, not a fuck date.” When John looks at him: “All right, fucking may happen. He’s hot and I’m slutty.”

“What happened to not-gonna-be-a-bride-of-Satan?”

“Ford was wearing Cavalli again today,” Neville says dreamily. Then he shrugs. “In a few days, he’s going back to Cali where he belongs. I can dance with the Devil till then. It’s just sex, J.” 

He glances around the room one more time. As he takes in the posters on the walls, his face is pensive again. “I really wanna shag Ford Huxley. But you know what I’d _really_ like? I’d like to talk to Sherrinford Holmes. I bet he was—interesting. Think he’s still in there somewhere?” Before John can answer: “Probably not. Not after all those years in LA. Shagging Ford will have to do. It’s not like that’s a hardship.” 

He pauses with his hand on the knob. “I’ll send you a draft of the cover story tomorrow. Don’t worry, nothing is getting posted without your okay. In the meantime, talk to Sherlock! We’ve gotta get one of these Holmes boys married, and he’s the one with the baby.” 

Neville is gone with a saucy wink. 

After, John lies there a few minutes, frowning at Alex DeLarge. 

Then, following a hunch, he gets out of bed and goes to the bookcase.

The little paperbacks are on the bottom shelf, lined up between a first edition of _Brave New World_ and a stack of yellowing _Cahiers du Cinéma._ Among the paperbacks is not every book the author published, just the ones from the mid-to-late 1980s. But the one John wants is there. 

On this brief January day, the light from the window is already fading. Turning on the desk lamp, John lays down on the bed with his book. He’s not sure what he’s looking for in its pages. He already knows the broad outlines of the story, but he needs details. A novel is always more detailed than the film, even when it has been lovingly and obsessively adapted for the screen. 

John has seen the film, but now he wants a different storyteller. He wants _her._ Violet Vernet, telling her first and most personal story. The one that led John to this very room. 

He opens _The Shadow Son_ and begins to read.


	44. Chapter 44

** John, 6 January 2013 (cont.) **

_The Shadow Son,_ like many genre mysteries, doesn’t take long to finish. John is done reading it in a couple of hours. He’s fallen into a doze, the paperback open on his chest, when he’s startled awake by a voice coming from the hallway outside. Neville left the door open a crack when he departed, so the words are easily understood. It’s Mycroft: John would know that crystalline accent and tortuous syntax anywhere.

“I realize the current situation is difficult for you. But there’s no need to take on like this. Yes, he’s behaved quite abominably—but you can hardly be surprised, given his origins. Who were his mother and father? Who were his grandparents? Nobody of consequence. He’s a _mongrel._ You come from a good family, you were well-brought up. It’s your duty to set an example.” 

Of course Mycroft is slagging John off. Sherlock’s brother has never thought much of him, since he tried to bribe and intimidate him the night they met. But after what’s happened today, Mycroft has a bloody cheek criticizing John’s family and character.

Chest burning at the unfairness of it all, John gets up and creeps noiselessly to the door. He peers through the crack. Yep, it’s Mycroft all right. John can’t see Sherlock from this angle, but of course he’s there. Who else would his brother be scolding in that insufferably paternal way?

John clenches his hands, glaring in the dark as Mycroft keeps going.

“We know what happens when we don’t control ourselves. All of this current unpleasantness could have been avoided if you had shown a bit more restraint at New Year’s. Yes, I do put the onus mostly on him, but your conduct was not what it should have been, was it? Don’t give me that look! Really, you must learn to take constructive criticism.” 

_John_ misbehaved at New Year’s? This is too fucking much. 

“We’re going to the kitchen now, and you’re going to have some supper. I’m quite concerned about your appetite. Then you’re going to sit in the office with me. I’ll play Mozart for you; I know he’s your favorite. In time, you’ll forget about this nasty business. You’ll forget _him._ That’s the best solution, don’t you think? Just forget him. He’s not worthy of your attention.”

John flings open the door. “Where the hell do you get—” then he stops, blinking confusedly.

Mycroft, muted as always in his grey suit and dark blue tie, is accompanied by a much more colorful character. Held securely in his arms is a fluffy bundle of red, brown, black and white. John’s gaze jerks all over, looking for Sherlock, but he is nowhere to be found. There’s just Mycroft and his little cat, whose brilliant gold eyes have dilated hugely at John’s appearance.

“John, please,” Mycroft says. “Do lower your voice. Bess is already upset.” His long fingers caress her between the ears and Bess relaxes, burrowing more securely into his bicep.

“Uh, sorry,” John says. “I thought—I mean—were you talking to your cat?”

“Attempting to.” Mycroft sighs. “She’s not inclined to see reason, I’m afraid. She’s not at all happy about Faust’s reappearance here. They have a difficult history.” His index finger barely brushes Bess’ ear. John sees a row of stitches there, only partly concealed by black patches in her fur. “I’m sure you’ve heard about the altercation at New Year’s, and how it led to Sherlock returning to Baker Street unexpectedly. I know you were shocked by his sudden resurrection. But there was nothing else to be done. Faust _attacked_ poor Bess. True, there was provocation, but it was hardly gentlemanly behavior. He’s twice her size.” 

Mycroft scritches Bess under her mottled chin. “No, it wasn’t right at all. Was it, my lamb?” The words are positively cooing. On his face is an expression John has never seen there before. Is that—tenderness? Fucking hell. 

Totally discombobulated at seeing the Iceman go melty, John grasps for words. “Um, no. He didn’t tell me. But I—I guess it makes sense.” 

Mycroft nods pleasantly. “We will be more vigilant this time. I’m sure Faust’s tenure here will not be long. The security system will be completed at Baker Street in a few more days—Raphael has assured me, and he and Samael are quite adept at that sort of thing. In the meantime, I would appreciate it if you kept a look-out. Please keep Faust away from Bess. Sherlock simply refuses to discipline him.” He takes one of Bess’s dainty paws between two fingers. “Faust’s behavior is provocative, and even ladies have their limits. Don’t they, darling girl?”

Bess rubs her cheek against Mycroft’s chest. He caresses her fluffy belly, and she purrs so loud that John can hear her from where he’s standing. The cat’s golden eyes have narrowed to glazed little slits. She gazes at her master with a look that could only be described as sensual. 

John shifts from foot-to-foot, feeling uncomfortably like a Peeping Tom.

“Sherlock is asleep,” Mycroft says to John, though he’s still looking at his darling girl. “You’re more than welcome to join Bess and me for supper.”

John is a bit peckish, but the thought of sitting at the table watching Mycroft commune with his cat mistress is too fucking weird. “That’s okay,” he says. “I was going upstairs, actually. See how Nero and Danica are doing.” It’s as good an excuse as any for getting him out of this mess.

“As you please. There’s cold shepherd’s pie in the kitchen when you’re ready.” 

John nods and walks quickly to the stairs. When he pauses on the bottom step and looks down, he sees Mycroft headed for the kitchen. Bess has been put over his shoulder like a fussy baby. 

“Nope. No emotionally unhealthy people here,” John says. 

He heads upstairs, figuring he may as well make good on his stated plans. The house is dim and quiet. Though it’s only a quarter past seven, it feels like it’s much later in the evening. As John goes, his eyes rove over the pictures hung on the walls, depicting more dead Holmes relatives. Nev wasn’t wrong about this place. If one of those hollow-eyed Victorians suddenly started speaking, John would be terrified but not surprised.

At the top of the stairs, he notices a picture that is not nearly as ancient as the rest. It’s in color, but that’s not the only reason he stops to take a closer look. The picture shows two young boys of about ten or so. They are sitting on the checkered front steps of Chapel Street, dressed in their school uniforms. Both of them are smiling, and one has his arm tight around the other. The first boy’s features are more finely drawn than his companion’s, his smile is more open. But the boys are still much alike: same height, same build, similar coloring. Their gazes are identical, steely blue and penetrating.

If you didn’t know better, you might mistake them for twins. Mycroft and Ford are not, but going by the photograph they were very close at one time. _The Shadow Son_ fresh in his memory, John doesn’t have to wonder how they became the hostile pair he saw at Baker Street. Siger and Violet’s divorce ended more than a marriage. 

John doesn’t like Mycroft or Ford, but he feels a twinge of pity. His estrangement from Harry was hard enough for the few years it lasted. What would it be like to lose a person who is, for all intents and purposes, your twin? After so many years, would feelings lurk under the permafrost? 

Probably not. Some brothers might feel longing or regret, but not these two. Ford and Mycroft are Holmeses, after all. Chapel Street is another country, they do things differently here.

John leaves the little twins in their moment of sepia-tinted happiness ( _stay in the ‘70s, lads—it’s only gonna get harder from there_ ), and moves on. When he gets to the fourth floor, he sees light under the first of the doors on the hallway.

He raps gently on it. “Danica?”

“Come,” she says.

John nudges open the door. The nanny’s room is as small as the bedrooms on the third floor, and even more sparsely furnished. Just a narrow iron daybed shoved against the left-hand wall, and a scuffed wardrobe opposite. Both pieces must be a hundred years old, and the yellowed lace curtains can’t be much younger. The walls are plain plaster, bare of pictures except for a sheaf of dusty dried flowers in an oval frame hung over the bed.

Danica follows John’s gaze. “Yes. Is shithole,” she says. “When do we go home?”

“Mycroft says a few days,” John says. “Raphael and Samael have to finish the security system.”

“They must hurry.” 

The only brightness in the room is Danica herself, rosy-lipped and pink-cheeked, yellow hair spilling over her shoulders. She’s wearing the same red track pants and purple top she had on this morning. On the bed beside her is a knot of pink daisies tied with a white ribbon, the sort of thing you pick up from a street vendor. 

There is one more bit of color, John sees as he comes a bit further into the room. Hidden in the corner by the wardrobe is a rickety little table. It holds a sheaf of artfully arranged orchids in a crystal vase, the flowers’ purple hearts vivid against their snowy outer petals. 

“Where did the flowers come from?” he asks.

Danica picks up the daisies, twirling them in her fingers. “Michael give them to me.”

“Mycroft’s man? Really?”

“He say he is sorry for grope in shower. He asks if I will not call him pig fucker anymore.”

“That was decent of him.”

“They are just flowers,” Danica says. But she’s smiling as she picks up the daisies and sniffs them. Then she carefully lays the little bouquet back on the bed. 

“What about the orchids? Did Michael send those, too?”

Danica stops smiling. “No. Jools Siviter send those.” 

“Julia’s father? You know him?” 

John is surprised. He’s never met the man, though he’s heard stories. To hear Sherlock tell it, Jools is what would happen if Bertie Wooster and Lord Voldemort had a baby. 

“I see Jools twice,” Danica says. “The first time I hope he may forget me, but today he see me when he comes for Julia. He thinks of me now. That is what card with flowers say.” 

“Why is he thinking of you?” John asks, though it’s a stupid question. Why does any rich and powerful man send a hundred-quid vase of flowers to a 23-year-old nanny?

“He wants to fuck me. But I think he buy me dinner first.” 

John grimaces. “Would you really—” he stops. “I mean, are you going to dinner?”

“I am very busy.” She frowns at the orchids. “You can have those.”

“I wouldn’t take your flowers, Dani. Don’t you like them?”

Danica wraps her arms around her knees, pulling herself into a protective ball. “No.”

John comes closer to her, sitting on the edge of the daybed. “Look, if Jools is harassing you, I’m sure something can be done about it.”

Danica looks at him like he’s stupid. “I am not scared. You think Jools Siviter is first mean old man who try to fuck me? My uncle’s friends—bah!” She throws up her hands. 

“Then what—”

“Orchids make me sad.” Danica pauses, biting her lip. “Mrs. Wolfe—Iris—she like them. She send white orchids on my birthday.” 

“Oh.” John is at a loss, as he usually is when someone brings up Irene Adler.

“My birthday was three weeks ago. Mrs. Wolfe send me white orchids, and now she is dead.” Danica’s eyes are shiny with tears. 

John doesn’t know what to say. Danica has always spoken well of Irene, but she’s never seemed visibly upset about her death before. He thought the relationship between them was just a lady and her maid, but to make the unshakeable Danica cry—it must have been something more.

“What happen to her, it was not fair,” Danica whispers.

“What did happen to her? Sherlock never said.” _Of course, I never asked._

“Ask him.” Danica wipes her eyes on the tail of her shirt. “I love her, and she is dead. There is no more to say.”

“You loved—” John stops. “Dani, were you and Irene—I mean Iris—”

“We were not lovers. When I first meet her, I think maybe—” Danica stops. “Then Sherlock come. I do not know his name then. He call himself Mr. Wolfe.”

It takes John a moment to speak around the cold lump in his throat. 

“So Sherlock and Irene were living as man and wife.” It’s nothing that he didn’t already suspect, but it’s one thing to suspect and quite another to hear it confirmed.

“Yes.” Danica pauses. “No.”

“What?”

“They live as man and wife. They have baby. But they do not have sex.”

“How on Earth can you know that?”

Danica rolls her eyes. “I clean their house. I wash their sheets! No sex.” She shakes her head. “Mrs. Wolfe tell me terrible things about her husband. How he leave her alone before she have Nero. When he comes to her, I am surprised. I do not like him because of the terrible things she say. And he is so cold, he does not touch her. When they go to town all is well, but at home—he is so mean. He stay in his room all day. I do not understand. Why does he play these games? Why is he in Budva? I think it must be her money. I hate him then.” 

She stops, breathless, after the longest speech John has heard her make in English. 

After a moment, she goes on. “He tell me who he is after Mrs. Wolfe died. He tell me who she was, too. Irene Adler! I look her up on web. She is famous lesbian, which I always think may be true, the way she look at me sometimes.” 

Danica looks sad again, going quiet. Then she rouses herself, putting one of her pink hands on John’s knee. “I do not hate Sherlock now. He tried to save Iris, though he did not love her. When we come to Baker Street, I see why he is so mean in Budva. He miss you so much! When you are not there, he cannot be happy.”

John doesn’t know what to say to this. Danica tells such a different story of Montenegro from what he imagined. She doesn’t have the English to give him all the details, but the gist of it is clear enough: In Budva, Sherlock was Irene’s husband in name only. 

That doesn’t make sense, given the very real fact of Nero. If Sherlock didn’t love Irene, why did he get her pregnant? Why did he live with her for six months? Something doesn’t add up.

Danica must see the mistrust on his face, for her brows draw together. “I do not lie.”

“I believe you,” John says. “But if they never loved each other, how did they get a baby?”

Danica shrugs. “Everybody make mistakes.”

Though he still feels like shit about the whole thing, John can’t help smiling at her matter-of-factness. Danica smiles back. Then she stretches over the far side of the bed. When she re-emerges, she is holding a Tesco bag.

“I buy you this today,” she says. “We do not have time to pack, I think you may need it.” 

John takes the bag, expecting socks or something else their housekeeper would remember. 

He looks in the bag. He stares. He closes the bag.

“You are welcome,” Danica says, raising an eyebrow.

“Thanks,” John says faintly.

She gets up from the bed, stretching her taut young body. “Nero is such a bad boy all day. But now he sleeps, and I am hungry!” she says. “I go to kitchen and see Mrs. Thompson. I like her, she is nice. She say she will teach me shepherd’s pie. She say if I know recipe, my husband will never leave me.”

Danica crosses the room and picks up the vase of orchids. “I give Mrs. Thompson these.” She smirks. “Jools Siviter should give her flowers! They are same age.”

She pauses in the doorway. “Sherlock—you are angry with him.”

“Yes.”

“He is not a bad man. You must talk to him.” Danica looks meaningfully at the Tesco bag. “But please do not be loud. You wake Baby.”

Once she’s gone, John remains on her bed for a moment, considering. Danica’s revelations are tantalizing, and totally ambiguous. A talk with Sherlock is looking inevitable, awkward as that conversation might be.

Of course, however awkward things get with Sherlock, it’s comforting to know that it can’t be worse than his housekeeper giving him a bag full of Trojans and Astroglide.

John looks in the Tesco bag again. This time, he laughs. 

“Oh, Mrs. Hudson,” he whispers. “Where are you now?” 

He knows the answer: Cheshire, living in a cottage that’s all a cottage should be, going by the pictures she’s sent. Mrs. Hudson is one more part of his old life that won’t be coming back. His new life is so strange. He can’t seem to wrap his head around all the changes. One in particular.

Reluctantly, John gets up and leaves Danica’s room. He walks further down the hallway, past a miniscule bath and a crowded boxroom. He stops at the last door in 19 Chapel Street.

Very quietly, in deference to its sleeping occupant, John nudges the door open.

Unlike the shabby Victoriana which infests the rest of the house, this little room is somewhat contemporary. The white furniture was brand-new and expensive three decades ago, and there isn’t one Holmes relative on the walls. Instead, there are beautifully tinted copies of Tenniel’s drawings from _Alice in Wonderland._ Alice and her adventures are depicted in peaceful pastels, which are echoed in the curtains, the pads on the rocking chair and changing table, and the rag rugs on the floor. Everything is faded, but it’s still the best part of the house that John has seen. It even smells better: The room has been recently cleaned, and smells deliciously of oranges.

At one time the cot linens would have matched, but the world has moved on since 1980. People didn’t understand SIDS back then. Now the cot is bare except for a new fitted sheet, which Danica must have bought today. Upon it Nero sleeps, his face peaceful as only an infant’s can be. As John leans over him, he sees the cot is not totally empty. In Nero’s hand is something colorful. He must have been recently chewing on it, for the plush material is damp with drool.

John leans closer, inspecting the toy. This must be another result of Danica’s shopping trip. It’s a smiling flower with multi-colored petals, attached to a tough but pliable plastic ring. Hanging from some of the petals are knotted fringes, just begging to be tugged by small fingers. Attached to other petals are bright plastic toggles, which give still more opportunities for chewing. John would bet a tenner that the whole thing squeaks when you poke it.

It’s the perfect thing to keep Nero happy for a long time: pretty and soft, with all sorts of amusing elements. The boy does seem satisfied. His plump fist clutches the toy possessively. 

John feels himself frowning, a familiar burn in his chest.

“Happy, are you? All that drama this morning, and now look. Where’s your bloody bear? Who bloody cares? You don’t. Well, keep your sodding flower! I hope the bear never comes back.”

That last bit was too loud. Nero shifts restlessly in his sleep, eyelids fluttering as if they’re about to open. John makes himself step away from the cot and sit down in the rocking chair. He’s too angry, and it’s not fair. They’re just teething toys, for fuck’s sake. Not everything is a metaphor.

He stays that way a few minutes, making himself breathe slowly. He looks around the nursery again, which helps to calm him. Thirty-three years ago, someone did a very good job with this room. It’s soft, bright, and soothingly cheerful, everything a nursery should be.

The only thing disturbing about the space is the eerie feeling of déjà vu which it inspires. Ford recreated it exactly for his film of _The Shadow Son._ He must have worked from his own vivid visual memory, with his mother’s novel to help him. Violet’s description in the book is exact. This is the room where Vivien Houseman said goodbye to her youngest son, the crying infant torn from her breast by his cruel father. 

John, with a writer’s nose for hyperbole, wonders how accurately that scene reflects reality. If Mycroft is any guide to Siger Holmes’ personality, it’s difficult to imagine the man uttering such vicious threats. Yes, he’d be more than capable of having his wife’s lover killed, but it’s hard to believe he would announce it ahead of time. Ambiguity and obfuscation: That’s the language of someone who spends his life working in the shadows. He would not threaten, he would act.

Siger Holmes did act. Whatever he said to his wife the night their marriage died, the result was identical to the ending of _The Shadow Son._ Violet kept her lover but lost her family. Her eldest son stayed loyal, but her middle son betrayed her and the youngest forgot her altogether. 

But did he really forget?

Katerina Watson has been dead for 30 years. John has not forgotten her. He remembers his mother’s eyes, her voice, her smell. He remembers how it felt to sit on her lap while she read him Lewis Carroll and E. Nesbit and P. L. Travers. The only thing more lovely than the stories was the feel of her fingers playing in his hair. 

He only had his mum for eight years—seven really, as she was so sick the last year. The loss will gut him until the day he dies, but he did have that time. He has real, tangible memories. What would it be like not to have those? In that soft warm place inside you, where _Mother_ is supposed to be, there is—nothing. 

Slowly, John gets up and walks back to the cot. He looks down at the boy sleeping there. A lovely boy, with his dark curls and long lashes, his sturdy little body. As John looks, he can see another boy, very like this one if not so sturdy. Sherlock slept here once, long ago. Whatever his parents said or did not say in this room, the result was the same. The boy was left alone.

“I’m sorry,” John says. “I really am.”

The words aren’t just for Sherlock. Two weeks ago, Irene Adler died and left a child behind. No matter what kind of woman she was, the good or bad she might have done if she had lived, her death is a tragedy. For Nero is not a metaphor, and he’s not a symbol. He’s a little boy who lost his mother. He will not remember her, but he won’t ever forget. 

John leans down and places a kiss on those soft dark curls. He breathes in the clean yeasty smell of a sleeping baby. As he does, he feels a warm heaviness in his chest, a sweet but strange brew of affection and protectiveness. The feelings are new to him in this context, but the rush isn’t. The happy high of Oxytocin, it’s not just for lovers. Mothers and fathers feel it too. 

He straightens. Then he takes the flower out of Nero’s grip. Not from some petty jealousy, but because it really isn’t safe for him to be sleeping with a plush toy so close to his face. John puts the flower in the corner of the cot, where Nero will see it when he wakes up. Nero shifts a little, saying something in the babbling Gaelic of babies. But he stays sleeping, secure. Just to look at him, you wouldn’t know what he’s lost. 

“I do know,” John tells him. “I am sorry. But I don’t know if I can do this. I don’t even know if I should. I’m nobody’s mum, Nero. As for being somebody’s dad . . . ” 

John sees his own father as he can just remember him. Jimmy Watson’s face is keen and young, his hand stretched out full of shiny coins for John’s piggy bank. He sees Jimmy again, older and redder, stretched out snoring on the kitchen floor. No coins in his pockets now. Do the best you can for lunch, laddy. Dad can’t help you.

“I don’t know,” John whispers. 

But he stays a little longer, in this place that is both a nursery and a metaphor. He feels Nero’s diaper to make sure it’s dry. He passes his hand across the boy’s forehead, checking for sudden night fever. John is nobody’s father, maybe he never will be. But he stays.


	45. Chapter 45

** Sherlock, 6 January 2013 **

Sherlock knows there is another presence in the room before he opens his eyes. It’s not Faust: The cat has powers beyond that of an ordinary feline, but even his many toes aren’t dexterous enough to turn on the lamp. The cat must have avoided his archnemesis and gone walkabout again. Where does Faust go when he escapes his confines? Only the Devil knows.

It’s not Mycroft, either. He is uniquely silent. Long ago, when Sherlock was a boy suffering nightmares and Mycroft would sit with him, his brother sometimes seemed to fade right into the shadows. Perhaps if he’d touched him, Mycroft would have seemed less ghostly. But that rarely happened even when Sherlock was very little. After he turned seven, it never happened.

This presence is not feline or silent, and he’d know that breathing anywhere. He opens his eyes. 

John is sitting at the desk opposite the bed. His expression seems calm enough—truly calm, not the blank anger of this morning. On the desk beside him is a Tesco bag, for some reason.

“What time is it?” Sherlock says. It’s the most neutral query he can think of. His one wish for his birthday is a civil talk with John. This is his last chance.

“A bit after 8.”

Sherlock sits up, running his hands through his hair and belting his dressing gown more tightly. “I didn’t mean to sleep so long. Mrs. Thompson’s shepherd’s pie is a powerful soporific.”

John just shrugs. “So this is your old room,” he says. “It’s not how I pictured it.”

“How was that?”

“Bit more _Doctor Who,_ bit less _Downton Abbey._ Your brother does like that retro look.”

“Try to burgle the place sometime. You’ll see how modern Mycroft can be.” When John raises both eyebrows: “Laser beam sensors, 360-degree cameras, pressure pads, and taut wire detection systems. I’ll say no more.”

John peers at the walls with new respect. “Is that what we’re going to have at Baker Street?”

Sherlock lets himself enjoy the warm feeling in his chest at John’s use of the inclusive pronoun. “Probably. Mycroft’s people are adept in their work. I know their manner seems odd—”

“Yep. Odd is one word for it. Two more words are ‘fucking creepy.’”

“Mycroft has a strict sense of protocol when it comes to his subordinates. My father employed similar methods with great success.”

John looks grim. “I’ve heard about his methods.” Before Sherlock can ask what that means: “Who’s the bloke in the uniform over there? He looks like you, except blonder and horsier.”

Sherlock gets up, stretching to work the kinks out. He goes to the wall by the wardrobe, where the picture hangs. It’s large, easily 40 centimeters across, and placed in a round frame. It has the odd faded edges of many old photographs, as if the subject is floating in nothingness.

“This is my Great-Uncle Evelyn,” he says.

“Soldier Evie? I pictured him differently.”

Sherlock remembers now. He told John about Evie one night, after too many sakis at the Auspicious Teahouse. John didn’t react much, but of course he remembered. Writers have minds like magpies, picking up any shiny bits of exposition that come their way. He used the anecdote at the beginning of “The Sussex Vampires.” Mycroft was seriously displeased, but Sherlock was just surprised. After some reflection, he realized he didn’t mind John’s readers knowing about Evie. Someone besides Sherlock should remember him.

Irene remembered. If it hadn’t been for John’s story, she never would have known about the Stradivarius. She might be alive, and Sherlock might not be sitting here now. Amazing, how powerful a good story can be.

“Nice gongs Evie’s got on.”

With a blink, Sherlock forces himself away from the fires of Budva. It takes him a moment to understand the comment. John’s camouflage is showing—gong is military slang for a medal.

“Yes. Evie served a long time. He came home with Pip, Squeak, and Wilfred. That’s what they called the 1914 Star, the British War Medal, and the Victory Medal.”

“I know.” John taps his fingers on the desk. “PTSD. Nobody understood it back then, did they? No wonder the poor lad topped himself.” He looks around. “This was his room?”

“To the very furniture. He shot himself where you’re sitting.”

John jerks his hand up. “Christ! They kept the desk? Were your grandparents that cheap?”

“Just resistant to change. Something my family has always understood: Blood wipes clean.”

Sherlock turns back to the picture. He traces a finger around the frame, rubbing away dust. “Or perhaps it doesn’t. Not for Evie, anyway. It wasn’t just the stress of being a soldier, or the lost violin, or even the morphine habit. Mostly, it was losing Gilbert. He never really recovered.”

“So he was gay,” John says. “You never said before.”

“It’s never been openly discussed in the family. Everyone knew, of course. His lover Gilbert was rather a good poet—they published a volume of his work after his death. He might have been the equal of Owen or Sassoon, had he lived longer.”

“But he didn’t.”

“No. He died on the first day of the Battle of the Somme, cut to pieces by German machine-guns. C Company started that day with 24 officers, and by the end there were two. Evie was one of them. You could say he was lucky. I’m not sure I'd agree.”

“Survivor’s guilt. Seeing someone you love die, it’s a hard thing to get past.” 

So that’s where all this was headed. Sherlock has been wondering.

He keeps looking at Evie, staring into grey eyes much like his own. “I suppose it is.” 

“It is, Sherlock,” John says. “It really is.”

Sherlock makes himself face him then. John is staring at Sherlock intently. He does not look angry. The emotion Sherlock sees is much worse than anger. There’s an ocean of sorrow in that deep blue gaze. Sherlock always knew John had mourned him—he witnessed the final graveside soliloquy. When he returned from London and saw John’s careworn face, he knew the extent of his friend’s suffering. Sherlock recognized the emotions, but he did not let himself feel them. He didn’t dare. But now he does, and the truth of it makes his knees go weak. 

He clutches at the battered knob of the wardrobe. “John, I’m—” he stops, at a total loss. How do you say this? How can you express this much guilt and regret in a single apology? It would be hard to do even if he were as glib as Ford. He rubs at his temples, sighing.

There is anger on John’s face now. “For fuck’s sake, just spit it out! I need to hear you say it.”

Sherlock takes a ragged breath. “I’m sorry for faking my death. It was a horrible thing to do.”

John looks at him a moment, as if he’s assessing Sherlock’s sincerity. Finally, he nods. 

“Why did you do it? Don’t mention those fucking assassins. They explain why you jumped. They don’t explain why you kept the charade going.”

Now he is guilty _and_ irritated. Sherlock starts restlessly pacing the room, trying to control the clashing emotions gnawing at him like ants. “You make it sound so simple! As if those guns pointed at you, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade were the only possible punishment Moriarty had in store. Yes, I thought he was dead, but I knew he must have other confederates. My jump made you safe that day. My continued death meant you would be safe the next day, and the day after that.” He stops a few feet from the desk. “I knew you would mourn me. But I also knew that in six months or a year, you would get on with things. Unlike Evie, you have a talent for survival.” 

Something flashes across John’s face. It’s a strange expression, somehow guilty and defiant at once. Sherlock doesn’t like it at all, but it’s gone when John raises his chin.

“We could have run together. If I’m such a survivor, why didn’t you think of that?”

“I did. But I knew it couldn’t work.”

“Because you were headed to Montenegro?” John smiles a little, as if this is a joke they are sharing. But his eyes don’t smile at all.

And suddenly, Sherlock understands John’s anger in a way he didn’t before. 

“You think it was all by design,” he says slowly. “I faked my death, then ran to be with Irene.”

“Didn’t you?” Heedless of its history, John is clutching Evie’s desk until he’s white-knuckled. 

“No. That was a spur-of-the-moment decision, born of simple curiosity. I only meant to observe her circumstances. I never planned to reveal myself.” 

“Right. You had no idea she was pregnant. None at all.” John won’t look at him.

Sherlock sits on the edge of the desk, invading John’s space. John flinches but doesn’t give any ground. He still won’t look up.

“John. _No._ It was one night in Mumbai. At the time, I didn’t think I would see her again.” 

When this gets no response, Sherlock grabs John’s face, forcing their gazes to meet. “Before you play the martyr over this, remember those texts you sent me in India about your two new girlfriends. One of whom turned out to be Neville St. Clair. I have done you many wrongs, I know that. But infidelity is not one of them.”

John stops struggling against Sherlock’s hold. “Maybe that’s true,” he says after a moment. “But— _you had a baby with Irene Adler.”_

The rage in his voice is expected. The revulsion makes Sherlock wince. But he tries to keep his voice calm when he answers. Conciliatory.

“You and I weren’t lovers when Nero was conceived. I didn’t even know you liked men.”

John gives Sherlock a mirthless smile. “I want you to picture something. You come back from Montenegro. When you see me, I’m holding hands with Sally Donovan. And she’s pregnant.” 

Sherlock’s shudder is so intense, he lets John go. “For pity’s sake, man,” he gasps.

“Good. You’re freaked out. Now you know how I’ve been feeling.”

Sherlock feels a pain in his right thigh, and looks down. He makes himself stop digging his nails into his flesh. “Your point is painfully well-taken,” he whispers. “But I won’t apologize for my son’s existence. Don’t ask me to do that. I—I can’t.” 

He hears the shake in his voice, and stops. For a moment, they’re both silent. John is very still. In all this time he hasn’t moved from the desk. Stoic as a rock, his thoughts are unknowable. Sherlock is afraid to know. 

John sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I don’t hate Nero,” he says. “If that’s what you’re looking so worried about, stop. He’s just a little boy. He’s _your_ boy. How could I hate him?”

The gentleness in John’s voice makes it possible for Sherlock to speak again. 

“Once I saw the baby, I had to stay with Irene,” he says. “I didn’t want to. I was miserable in Budva. I thought of you every single hour in that wretched place. I never thought you’d suffer so much. I never thought you might be in love with me. How could I have guessed? You hid your feelings so well. Perhaps there were clues, but I never saw them. My own odd blindness, I suppose. It’s why I couldn’t take you with me when I ran. The two of us together, living in the shadows with only each other—I might have betrayed something. I couldn’t risk it.”

John’s expression, which had softened considerably during the beginning and middle of this speech, is tense again. “Let me see if I have this right. You’d rather I believe you were dead than know you were crushing on me?”

“Not a crush. I’m not 12. _Feelings,_ John: deep and, so far as I knew, totally unrequited.”

John peers at him. “What feelings are those, exactly?”

“That I—well. I mean—” Sherlock stops, scowling. “You know very well what feelings! I made them quite clear this morning. And the night before.”

John crosses his arms over his chest. “You made it clear you want to fuck me. You wanted to fuck Irene, too. And those rent boys on Halloween. Also, I occasionally suspect your feelings for Lestrade. Your randiness isn’t much of a compliment.”

“Let’s not bring up the rent boys,” Sherlock mutters. He gets to his feet, pacing the room again. “This is absurd. I don’t see why such a declaration is necessary.”

John jumps up too, glaring. “Are you fucking kidding? _You outed me._ A billion bloody people at YouTube know how I feel about you. Nothing ever dies online, Sherlock. Five hundred years from now, our screaming row will still be rocketing through cyberspace. Bloody Vulcans will be watching the fucking thing. But now you can’t tell me—just me—how _you_ feel? Fuck you.”

He starts for the door, but Sherlock dashes across the room and grabs his arm. “John. Wait.”

John’s whole body is rigid, but he doesn’t pull away this time. His gaze burns into Sherlock. 

“Last chance, love,” he says. “I know what you come from. I know who you are. You don’t have to say it on YouTube. You don’t even have to say it to me, not every day. But you have to say it today. If you can’t say it, after everything you’ve done, everything you’re expecting me to do, then you really don’t feel it.” 

John leans close enough to kiss him. But his eyes are harder than Sherlock has ever seen them. 

“I don’t want to walk out of this house for good,” he says. “But you know I can. All the lasers and trip-wires in the world won’t stop me.” 

Sherlock tries to answer. He really does. But no words come out. 

He tries again. Nothing.

Oh God, Oh God, Oh God. His temples are suddenly pounding, pounding with blind white panic. This is akin to what he felt standing on the roof of St. Barts, but it’s so much worse. Because it’s real. There’s no tough cord around his waist, ready to snap back and save him from smashing at the last minute. John is about to leave him, and Sherlock will not recover from that. 

Goddamn Siger Holmes. Goddamn Chapel Street. He will never get out of this fucking room, where since he was seven years old not a single human being has touched him. It will be just him and Uncle Evie, two lonely ghosts staring at the blue wallpaper forever and ever. He can’t let that happen. His emotions and intentions, he has to get them out.

Sherlock realizes he’s shaking all over. “John,” he whispers. _“Please._ I do—” he cuts off with a choked sound. The room seems to be spinning. He feels like he’s going to faint dead away. He clutches his throat, hearing himself hyperventilate. He still can’t talk. He can’t even breathe.

“My God.” John gets an arm around him and leads him to the bed. Sherlock sits on the edge, bending forward, gasping and gagging. 

He feels a hand run soothingly down his back. “Breathe,” John instructs. “Slowly, in and out. Jesus, don’t try to talk.”

After a minute or two, the awful choked feeling subsides a bit. Sherlock sits up, still panting.

“Bloody hell, Sherlock. Never mind,” John says. “I’ll get you some water.” He starts to go. 

Before he can even rise, his arm is seized.

“NO,” Sherlock says. He’s suddenly furious, but at no one living. He feels the fury welling up inside, but he doesn’t push it down. Fury is good. He can talk when he’s furious. It’s the one emotional state where he can depend on eloquence. Even Siger could not crush that out of him.

“This is absurd. Not your asking for a declaration of affection, but my cowardice at providing it. I— _I love you. I’ve loved you from the moment in the cab when you told me I was amazing. I’ve been utterly, pathetically, irrevocably besotted ever since. I hated your girlfriends, every single one of them. I hate Neville St. Clair. I know he’s your best friend and a decent chap, but I hate him anyway. You can’t ever go back to him. You must stay with me. I’m sorry I faked my death. I’m an awful person and quite possibly a sociopath, but you must forgive me. Marry me. We’ll raise Nero and tell everyone else to sod off. Except Mycroft, because he’s lonely and talks too much to his cats. Is that all right? Because I do love you. I really do.”_

Sherlock stops, breathing hard. 

Then he smiles. “Well. That turned out to be shockingly easy, once I got going.”

John just stares at him.

“What? Wasn’t that—” 

John shakes his head. His eyes are amused and pitying at once.

Sherlock considers. Then he sighs. “That was French, wasn’t it?”

“Everything after the first bit, yeah.”

“Fuck.” But the good old Anglo-Saxon oath doesn’t comfort him. He takes another deep breath. “John, you must understand—”

“It’s okay. _Je t’aime,_ even I know what that means.” Sherlock is so relieved to see that John is grinning. “You just couldn’t say it in English, could you? Bloody German, even.” 

_“Ich liebe dich,”_ Sherlock says instantly. _“Du bist die liebe meines lebens.”_

John goes still. “The love of your life?” he says softly. “Really?” 

_“Really,”_ Sherlock says. He’s not even sure if that was German or French. But he knows John understands, because of the look in his eyes. John will never look at anyone else like that. Not a girlfriend, and not Mr. Neville St. Clair. Not while Sherlock has life in his body.

“There now,” John says. “Was that so bloody hard?” Then he kisses Sherlock breathless. 

Sherlock knows from last night that John is a lovely kisser, deep and gentle and just wet enough. But there is a new ferocity in him tonight. John pulls at the neck of the dressing gown, his fingers digging into Sherlock’s collarbone. His lips are so hot as his tongue plunders Sherlock’s mouth. The kiss is hard and possessive and rather painful. John kisses Sherlock like he’s branding him. Sherlock is dizzy again, his heart pounding like it’s another panic attack. He doesn’t mind at all.

John yanks at the belt of Sherlock’s dressing gown, opening the garment. His warm, calloused hand closes around the shaft of Sherlock’s cock. A smooth nail slides around his foreskin, and Sherlock moans.

“Shh,” John says. “Baby upstairs, brother downstairs. Let’s be discreet, shall we?”

Discreet. Right. Sherlock can do that. He bites his lower lip as John begins to stroke him. Just as silence is becoming truly difficult, he is released. John slides to the floor, kneeling in front of Sherlock. He traces his hands up Sherlock’s thighs, staring at his erect cock. 

“Beautiful,” he murmurs. “I want to look at it forever. But that’s not all I want.” 

He leans forward and runs his hot, questing tongue down Sherlock’s shaft. Sherlock, cautioned to silence, manages not to wail. But it’s a near thing.

“You’ve been very good,” John says. _“You said it,_ Sherlock. It’d be nice to hear it in English, but I’m still proud of you. I think a reward is in order.”

He tongues the vein on the underside of the shaft, then licks around and around, up and down. The sensation is like a golden ribbon of heat curling around Sherlock’s cock. It feels so good. It’s so much better than he deserves. He gasps and clutches at John’s shoulders.

“Please,” he manages. “You don’t have to—” he cuts off as John squeezes his balls.

“Shut up,” John says in his captain’s voice. Then he bends his head and sets to work. 

Sherlock has wondered about his technique. Before, the speculation was pure fantasy: Captain John Watson does not suck cock. But Captain John _does,_ Sherlock has tangible proof now, and he’s very good at it. John does it like he does so many things—generously and passionately, with precise attention to detail. He’s so good with details, he cashes the checks and vets the clients and remembers to buy Weetabix. You could love him for that alone. Sherlock has.

But after this, after John has slowly, generously, and thoroughly sucked him off, fellating him until Sherlock’s whole body is on fire and his eyes are rolling back in his head, Sherlock isn’t going to love him. He’s going to bloody worship him.

John has his thumb and forefinger wrapped tight around the base of Sherlock’s shaft. The pressure is amazing and awful at once. Sherlock wants desperately to come, but he can’t as long as John has him so tightly gripped. John keeps gripping him while ruthlessly licking and sucking. It’s a lovely torture, Sherlock will die if John doesn’t stop. He’ll die if John does. It can’t stop but it must, the pressure is swelling like a hot red balloon, filling him up until he’s ready to—

John opens his hand as he gives Sherlock’s cock one last, vigorous suck. Then Sherlock does come, and the fiery disintegration is so very, very, very good. He doesn’t shout aloud (he _is_ cautious), but he digs his fingers into John’s shoulders so violently he knows he’s leaving bruises. He’ll apologize when he remembers how to talk again. 

It takes a few minutes. Sherlock has collapsed back on the bed. When he clears his vision and notices his surroundings, he sees John. He’s standing over him, smirking.

“Happy Birthday.”

Sherlock sits up, shivering with post-orgasmic aftershocks. “You know, all I wanted for my birthday was a civil conversation.” He runs his hands down his face. “I’m a fucking idiot.”

“Yep.” John pulls his jumper over his head. Sherlock watches in happy fascination as he strips. If you like small, sturdy, muscly men—and who doesn’t—John’s body is a feast for the eyes.

But as John, beautifully naked and encouragingly half-erect, reaches for him, Sherlock grimaces.

“What?”

“We left Baker Street too suddenly. I’m afraid we’re quite bereft of the necessary supplies.” Sherlock thinks a moment. “There’s probably some baby oil in the nursery.”

“Let’s avoid that particular Freudian nightmare, shall we?” John nods at the Tesco bag on the desk. “There’s enough condoms and lube for an entire circuit party right over there.” When Sherlock looks at him: “Danica. I was embarrassed, but fuck it. We should give her a raise.”

“Agreed.” Sherlock reaches for John, and is rewarded with another deep, possessive kiss. He pulls John down on the bed with him. It’s quite lovely for a few moments, despite the extreme narrowness of the antique bed. It just means Sherlock gets to touch John all the more. Sherlock loves touching him, every part of him, scarred and smooth. 

_If I could I’d never stop,_ he thinks as he presses John into the mattress. 

John tugs the red dressing gown further down Sherlock’s shoulders. “I can’t believe you forgot lube and remembered this old thing,” he grumbles. “What is it, 90 years—” 

John freezes. He stares up, eyes wide. “Sherlock. _Is this Uncle Evie’s bloody dressing gown?”_

“Um—”

“Oh my God.” John pushes Sherlock off. “Nev was right. Faulknerian doesn’t begin to cover it.”

Sherlock kneels on the bed, aggrieved. “For the sake of me and my erection, can we not talk about Neville?” 

“Sure. Whatever.” John pinches the bridge of his nose. “Please tell me Evie wasn’t wearing the gown when he topped himself.”

“No. Of course not.”

But John still looks quite disturbed. He pulls away, wrapping his arms around himself.

So much for further consummation. Sherlock sighs and looks around the room. His gaze rests on the portrait hung by the wardrobe. He locks eyes with his tragic Edwardian doppelganger, and he feels his own cock softening even without mention of a certain blogger. 

_Oh well,_ he thinks. At least the room has finally seen some action besides furtive masturbation. 

He starts to shrug the dressing gown back on, but John pulls sharply at the hem. “Take it off.”

“But it’s rather chilly—”

 _“Off._ I’m not shagging you while you’re wearing that thing.”

Sherlock’s flagging erection suddenly perks up. He whips the gown off and tosses it away. 

He reaches for John, who shakes his head. “Not on this coffin of a bed, either. I don’t do yoga: We pretzel ourselves onto this thing and I’ll never get unbent again.”

“Where, then?” Sherlock hears himself whine, and doesn’t care. It is his birthday, and he was promised sex. 

John looks around the room. Sherlock sees him consider the wall and the side of the wardrobe before dismissing both options. Then, suddenly, he stills. A mischievous and rather filthy grin spreads across his face. “Get up,” he says.

Sherlock gets off the bed. He sees John go to the desk. But he doesn’t just pick up the Tesco bag and lead them out of the room, as Sherlock expects. (The bath might work, if Sherlock can keep from giving himself a concussion on the shower head.) 

John pushes the chair away from the desk. Then he does pick up the Tesco bag, taking out a box of condoms and a bottle of lube. He leaves a condom and the lube on the edge of the desk. Then he sets the bag on the floor, out of the way. Sherlock blinks as he understands the plan.

“You can’t be serious—”

“As a heart attack. We’re going to fuck on Uncle Evie’s desk. More precisely, you’re going to bend over the desk and I’m going to fuck you. The angle is perfect and won’t hurt my back.” John grins proudly.

“I see. The robe is morbid but the desk is romantic?”

“This isn’t romance. It’s an exorcism. Unlike Ford’s sodding movie, this one is going to work.”

“Exorcism? I don’t—” but he cuts off as John pulls his head down and kisses him. The slide of naked flesh against naked flesh is lovely, and John’s mouth is hot and sweet and wet. As they kiss, his hand coaxes Sherlock from cautiously tumescent to ragingly hard.

“Right,” Sherlock says, once they break apart. “Desk.”

He places his hands wide apart on the top of the desk, bending over a bit.

He jumps as John smacks him on the ass. “Bit further. I’m below average height, remember?” 

Sherlock bends so far over, his face brushes the old leather blotter inlaid on the desktop. 

“Perfect. You’re obliging when sex is on offer, aren’t you? I love that.” 

Several sarcastic replies war on Sherlock’s tongue, but before he can spit any of them out his irritation is soothed by a warm, lube-slicked hand running down his back. 

“You are beautiful,” John says softly. “I should know every inch of you by now, but it still shocks me. In the best possible way.”

Two of his fingers slip between Sherlock’s buttocks. Sherlock gives a moaning sigh as they reach inside, exploring him. As they work he pushes back against them, trying to help things along. This initiative is greeted with another firm smack.

“My turn to top, Pushy.” 

Sherlock stills, and is rewarded by three fingers this time, gently massaging his inner muscles until he feels himself growing loose and slick. His head is filling with a luscious white noise as his cock leaks pre-cum. He reaches up to stroke himself; he can’t help it. He gasps a bit as he feels John’s hands slide around his waist. Soft lips nip at his ear. He pauses in his strokes, but John puts his hand over Sherlock’s, squeezing tight. 

“That’s it. Touch yourself. You are so fucking hot. But don’t come yet. I’m trusting you, love.”

Sherlock starts stroking again, but slower this time. His cock swells and strains but he is still in control, even while his brain buzzes with that silky noise.

“Yes,” John whispers, as he slowly enters him. For all his stated insecurity about Sherlock’s endowment, John’s cock is thick and lovely and fills you just right, as he pushes further and further in. Sherlock grips the desk with one hand while he masturbates with the other. He’s not sure which is more amazing, the throbbing of his cock as he strokes himself, or the pounding deep inside him as John finds that spot over Sherlock’s prostate and hits it, hits it, hits it. 

He strokes himself faster, trying to match the pace of John’s thrusts. John keeps pulling out and then shoving back in, setting up a brutal but delicious rhythm. It’s the perfect angle and perfect position for a fast, nasty fuck. Sherlock has been fucked so many times before, but this time is different. It’s John who’s fucking him, bending him over the desk where he’s spent a thousand lonely nights looking at chemical equations. But now he’s not lonely, John is deep inside, he’s being fucked hard in his boyhood room by the love of his life. Sherlock is going to come his head off at 19 Chapel Street and that is so brilliantly, wonderfully wrong. 

“I want you to come, baby,” John whispers in his ear. “Come for me. Let me hear you.”

“I—” Sherlock gasps as John gives a particularly fierce stroke. “I can’t—they’ll hear—”

“Good. Scream for me, Sherlock. Let the whole house hear you. Let them know I’m fucking you right—fucking—now—”

With each of those last three words John thrusts, thrusts, thrusts, while one of his hands grips Sherlock’s hip and the other wraps around his cock and jerks him hard, harder, hardest—

Sherlock comes with a scream that seems to echo off the ceiling. It goes on and on, breaking through decades of dust and shadow. It shatters 30 years of silence—90—150. He hopes it’s knocked all those creepy pictures right off the ugly papered walls. He hopes Edmund Holmes can hear it in his crypt at Highgate Cemetery. 

_You too, Siger,_ Sherlock thinks. _Here are my bloody feelings and my bloody intentions._

He hopes that somewhere, Uncle Evie is applauding.

Finally, the scream dies away. When he opens his eyes, he’s sitting on the floor. John has his arms around him, and Sherlock is leaning against him. He has no idea how they got there.

“Did you— ” 

“Oh yeah,” John says. His eyes flick guiltily towards the ground. “Check.”

It takes Sherlock a second to realize what he means. He reaches between his legs, and they come away sticky.

“Sorry,” John says. “You saw me put the condom on the desk. But I got—distracted.”

Sherlock nuzzles his neck. “That’s it. You have to marry me now.”

John blinks. “I—”

He cuts off as there’s a hard beating at the door. Then a high, angry Slavic voice.

 _“Stop fucking! You wake Baby!”_ Loud thuds, as angry little feet pound back up the stairs.

Sherlock and John stare at each other for one horrified moment. 

Then, together, they burst into ferocious giggles. They giggle and giggle, until they’re crying.

Finally, John wipes his eyes. “I warned you.”

“You told me to scream for you.”

“Hmm. There is that.” John looks around, shaking his head. “Why am I blushing? I’m on fucking YouTube. From now on, nothing can embarrass me.”

“I’m very glad to hear you say that. Uh, remember when I mentioned Mycroft’s cameras?” 

John eyes widen as they stare at the ceiling. “No.”

“Yes. Don’t worry, though. They only monitor, they don’t record. No YouTube videos.”

“Brilliant.” John glares upwards. “So Mycroft can only jerk off once to the sight of us fucking?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. My brother only watches lesbian pornography.”

“Never, ever tell me how you know that.” John runs his hands through his hair. “I take it back. Holmeses aren’t sociopaths. You’re bloody perverts.” He stands and starts gathering his clothes.

Sherlock remains seated, hugging his knees. “Is that a problem?”

“Nope. Lucky for you, so am I.” John tugs on pants. “Think there’s any shepherd’s pie left? I’m starving—” he stops as his ankle is grabbed. 

Sherlock looks up at him. He’s sticky and naked. But he’s also deadly serious.

“John,” he says. “I love you. Will you marry me?”

For a moment, there’s silence. John’s face has become unreadable. Sherlock feels his heart squeeze in his chest. _Please,_ he thinks. _Please, John. Don’t break my heart on my birthday. Even a sociopath wouldn’t deserve that._

Then John smiles. It’s the one that transforms him from a small, sturdy man with a careworn face into something divinely beautiful. The look in his eyes is one Sherlock has dreamed of seeing. If not for 33 years, at least for three. 

“Yes, I guess I will. But you’re gonna have to feed me first.”  
 ****


	46. Chapter 46

** Sherlock, 6 January 2013 (cont.) **

Mrs. Thompson’s shepherd’s pie is just as delicious cold as hot, and he and John have worked up a considerable appetite in the last hour. For a time, the only sounds are the scraping of silver on china and a few grunts of famished appreciation. Unlike most of their recent silences, this one is not uncomfortable. It is, in fact, one of the best silences in Sherlock’s memory, the two of them seated at the kitchen table, nothing but the light over the stove illuminating their late supper. He hopes this is the first of many such meals. Enough for a lifetime.

Many times, Sherlock imagined he and John growing old together at Baker Street. Though it always seemed like such a pointless fantasy. John would marry—he’s a natural husband and father, any fool could see that—and Sherlock would be left alone. He reminded himself of the inevitability of this, though every time John broke with one of his women, the day seemed to recede a bit further into the future. Amazing to think that it would never come now. 

“What are you grinning about?”

Sherlock pauses with a forkful of pie halfway to his mouth. “Grin? Me?”

“You, Sherlock. You’re as smug as Faust after he’s caught a rat.” John pauses, frowning. “Wait a sec. Does that make me the rat?” 

“Of course not. If you’re anything, you’re a kestrel. Small and brown but ferocious.” Sherlock can feel the grin this time: “Maybe a bear.” 

John rolls his eyes. “In a rather ugly jumper. Let’s hope I don’t get chewed to pieces and buried in the back garden, which is probably what Faust did to Nero’s baba.”

“That’s unfortunate,” Sherlock says. “Nero will be inconsolable.”

“Don’t think so. He already has a new toy. He’s sleeping with it right now.”

“A distraction. Nero has lots of toys, but there’s only one he wants.” 

John pushes mashed potatoes around his plate in a pensive way. “I don’t know,” he says slowly. “This one’s awfully pretty.”

Sherlock regards John a moment. “When he wakes up, Nero will remember what’s missing. Once we’re home we’ll have to find his bear. He won’t be happy with anything else.”

“Why?” John’s eyes are close on Sherlock’s face. “What’s so special about the bear?”

Sherlock cups John’s chin. “It’s _his_ bear.” 

He leans in for a kiss, and John’s lips are warm and responsive, drawing him deeper. A very nice kiss, for all that it tastes of shepherd’s pie. Sherlock wishes they could just kiss (or more—the oak table is over 100 years old and quite sturdy). However, something in John’s posture is stiff. John will always be a bit inflexible, thanks to Afghanistan. But his current stance has nothing to do with a sniper’s bullet. 

Sherlock pulls back, returning John’s watchful gaze. “I already told you about Montenegro.”

John shakes his head. “You said how you felt. You didn’t give details. I’ve been too angry to ask, but now I have to know. What happened in Budva?” 

Sherlock leans back, looking down at his plate. There’s plenty of pie left, but he’s lost the appetite for it. Just looking at that diced meat swimming in reddish sauce is making him sick. The warm glow of earlier isn’t gone entirely, but he knows their comfortable meal is over. He rises, pushing away his plate. A questioning look at John, who nods. Without a word, Sherlock clears the table of plates, glasses, cutlery, and the now-empty baking tray.

It takes a few minutes to wash, dry, and put the dishes away. John doesn’t say anything more, just lets Sherlock take momentary refuge in this simple domestic task. He doesn’t think while he does it, letting muscle memory take over, habits formed during a thousand evenings of helping Mrs. Thompson tidy up. (She never insisted, but he liked to. She was as close to a mother as Sherlock would ever have, and even as a child he knew that merited special consideration.) 

Sherlock wishes he had a mountain of dishes to attend to, but soon enough he’s done. When the last fork has been placed in the proper drawer, he wipes his hands and spreads out the tea towel to dry. It’s yellow with a border of purple flowers. Irises in bloom. Sherlock remembers Mrs. Thompson using it when he was small. Strange, how some things last while others fade away. 

He jerks his chin at John, who rises to follow. Sherlock leads him up the staircase and down a back hall, and soon they are in the conservatory. It’s not large, and there are only a few plants: half-a-dozen ferns, hung from the ceiling in mossy baskets. It’s furnished like a room, with a pair of wicker sofas and a large table surrounded by iron chairs. Some of the eaves are rusted, and the panes of glass rattle with every passing breeze. The fire banked in the iron stove flickers from drafts. The wicker sofas are frayed, and the Aubusson carpet is spotted with water stains. 

The conservatory isn’t very commodious, but it fulfills the necessary tasks. In winter it’s not as frigid as the back garden, and you can smoke in here. After Sherlock returned from California, this was his refuge from November until April. He still finds the conservatory comforting. Its shabby good nature reminds him of Baker Street.

He waves John towards a sofa while he checks the door on the other side of the conservatory. This one leads to the study, but no light shines under it. Mycroft has gone upstairs. Probably sitting in his favorite wing chair re-reading _Emma_ again, while the only woman he’s ever fully trusted purrs contentedly in his lap.

Sherlock reaches into one of the mossy baskets. He takes out a lighter and a pack of cigarettes, then sits down beside John. “Mycroft’s secret stash,” he explains. “For years I had no idea that he smoked. A sly one, my brother. He only does it occasionally. Unlike me, Mycroft has never suffered from a shameful addiction. Except Cadbury Milk Trays, of course.” 

“I’ve never understood the fat jokes. Mycroft isn’t really.”

“No, he isn’t. He hasn’t had a weight problem in five years. Even then he was just a bit pudgy around the middle. The only time Mycroft was ever truly fat was for a few years as a teenager. Eating his feelings, and what a lot of them he must have had! But he learned to channel them in other ways.” Sherlock indicates the cigarettes. “Smoking and spying, though he won’t talk much about either. _Sex_ —he says even less about that. When he was 16, Father began taking him to a certain house in Notting Hill. Within a month he’d dropped a stone. Ford told me about it. He didn’t say that Mycroft still sees professionals from time to time. I worked that out on my own.” 

Sherlock stops to light up. There it is—the sweet rush of a Dunhill Red, vanilla and bacon with an aftertang of caramel. It rushes up his sinuses and curls into his brain, caressing his synapses like a lover. Gorgeous. So much that for a moment he’s lightheaded from it. A different high than cocaine, more legal but no less fatal. 

For a couple of reasons, John is frowning at him. “Your father took you to see prostitutes?”

“Not me. By the time I was 16, he was too ill. Not Ford, either—not after the first time, when it became clear that my eldest brother’s orientation is unshakable. But Mycroft was given singular attention. He always was.”

“Because of the divorce?”

Sherlock raises both eyebrows as he exhales smoke. Even now, John’s occasional deductive leaps can take him by surprise. “Yes, Mycroft was the one who told Father about Mother’s affair. Ford has never forgiven him.”

“I read _The Shadow Son_ tonight,” John says. “I needed the exposition, I suppose. Some of the book seems a bit—much.”

“Perhaps Mother colored a few scenes. But it’s true enough. For as long as I’ve known them, Mycroft has been the golden boy and Ford the black sheep.”

“What about you?” 

Sherlock takes a long drag. “I was a surprise. Father never cared much for those.”

Through a haze of smoke, he sees John consider this. He watches John’s brows draw together. Sherlock can feel what John is feeling. For it’s his own pain, filtered through John’s boundless empathy. When you feel it secondhand, pain—yours and other people’s— becomes negligible. How many times has Sherlock made use of this emotional camouflage? Many times. It’s been so much easier to let John feel everything, while Sherlock himself remains separate. Safe.

 _Who protects John?_ The answer is clear. Nobody, not ever. Sherlock has seen the records.

When John was 12 and his sister 10, their mother’s sister, Klaudia Canterbury, tried to wrest custody away from James Watson. There were allegations of neglect and even physical abuse. But John denied everything, and Harry followed her brother’s lead. Why would he choose to stay with a man who didn’t feed or clothe him properly, one prone to drunken rages? Why not go to the aunt who was eager to care for him? 

John doesn’t wish to be cared for. Mark Morstan learned that too late, when John rejected a luxury loft for an army barracks in Afghanistan. He won’t be pitied and he won’t be protected, not at eight, or 12, or 27. Not at 34: Badly wounded and suffering from PTSD, he turned down his sister’s offer of assistance. At 37, facing the worst crisis of his life, John grudgingly accepted shelter from Harry but little else. 

Whatever John feels, he feels it alone. Why would someone so kindhearted deny himself basic comfort? After what Sherlock did, how can John still empathize? 

_He was raised by an abusive addict, so of course he grows up and falls in love with one._

Sherlock can hear Harry Watson’s voice. He’ll always hear it. She hit the mark more brutally than if she had put two in his skull. He doesn’t want to believe her, but there’s a cold core of truth in her words that he can’t deny. 

Sherlock takes one more drag. Then he tosses the fag on the stone floor. He grinds it out. 

He wants to apologize again. He wants this more than he wants another Dunhill Red. But he knows it would be pointless. Selfish too, for more _mea culpa_ is not what John wants. 

“Irene was murdered.” 

The words are clear and calm. He processed all this days ago, before he ever came back from the dead. So why do his hands shake so? Even if he allowed himself another cigarette—and he won’t—he wouldn’t be able to light it. Despite all his emotional breakthroughs this evening, he is ashamed of his lack of control. He fists his betraying fingers in his lap.

John says nothing immediately. Instead he picks up the poker and jabs at the coals in the stove. As the flames grow, his face is softened by the orange glow. It makes him look like the boy he was once. Kindhearted, but obdurate as stone. There would have been no other way to survive his childhood, all that weight on his young shoulders. How angry the burden must have made him! What strange instincts it gave him. Healing and killing, with an equal talent for both. 

Mycroft must be berating himself for not recruiting John when he was still in service. Someone in MI-6 was asleep at the switch, not to see what John was after he shot those insurgents. What he could have been, before a bullet severed his tendon and frayed his nerves. Harry Watson was an understandable oversight, but John was right there in the classified documents. 

John puts the poker down. He looks at Sherlock. His eyes are kind, but more than that they are determined. He wants to hear this story. For many reasons, some of them unkind, he has to hear.

“Tell me.”

Sherlock speaks quickly. Not every detail. John doesn’t have to hear about Christmas Eve, Irene’s seduction via Stradivarius. Instead Sherlock begins on Christmas Day. He mentions the row with Irene because it explains his own uncharacteristic behavior of taking Nero for an airing, something John would notice. He doesn’t tell John about the reason for the fight, or the train of Sherlock’s thoughts at Becici Beach. He makes what happened sound like a simple domestic, Sherlock going out to gather his thoughts and regain his temper. 

It doesn’t take long to tell it. He only falters in his recital once, when describing Irene’s corpse. He should have processed that by now. He has tried to banish the image to the deepest oubliette of his memory palace, but the details remain luridly real.

He regains his composure once Mycroft and his ministering angels appear in the tale. He doesn’t stumble when discussing their sordid activities, the dissolving of bodies and burning of evidence. He can describe pink paint turning black with equanimity. Sherlock never liked that villa.

He thought there would be something cathartic in the telling of these truths. But once he’s done he just feels exhausted, and quite desperate for another cigarette. His fingers still aren’t working right—they fumble at the pack. He spills the cigarettes onto the sofa. With a muttered oath, he pushes all but one back in the pack. He puts the fag between his lips and tries to light it, but the lighter jumps about like it has a mind of its own.

With a low sigh, John snatches the lighter from him. Then he holds it out, steady, so Sherlock can find the flame. Another sweet rush of nicotine, and he feels the jingle-jangle of nerves calm a bit. He leans back against the sofa, exhaling. 

John pinches the bridge of his nose. “Jesus. No wonder you’re so fucked up about it.”

“I’m not—”

“You’re smoking for the first time in ages, when you can stop shaking long enough to actually light up. When you say Irene’s name you look like the Devil twisted your balls.” He shrugs. “I’d be more worried if you weren’t fucked up. Seeing someone you love die, I thought you didn’t understand. But I guess you do.”

“I didn’t love her.”

“She was the mother of your child, Sherlock. You lived with her for half a year.” John pauses, biting his lip. “You had sex with her not long before she died. You felt something.”

Sherlock has gone still. “What makes you think we—for pity’s sake, you can’t possibly . . . ” He’s bewildered and rather angry. John can’t know. Perhaps the man has learned something about the art of deduction, but he can’t know _that._

“You haven’t the slightest bit of evidence—”

“Despite what Danica and the rest of the world think, I know a thing or two about women. Even _the_ Woman.” John tilts his head at Sherlock, lips quirking, though he’s not really smiling. “I’ve dated someone like her before: clever, high-strung, manipulative. Women like Lucy and Irene don’t like to fight. They only stoop to it when they feel something slipping out of their control—someone. You were going to leave, weren’t you? Irene knew it. She couldn’t stand it.”

When Sherlock just stares at him, John nods: “That’s it. For six months the two of you got on famously, but suddenly you were desperate to go. Something happened. Sex: You don’t talk about it much more than Mycroft. You’re odder about your partners than he is. Choosier when you’re not on coke. All those months, and you weren’t having sex with Irene. Danica told me about it. But Irene finally got ‘round you somehow, and you freaked out. Didn’t you?”

Sherlock can’t speak until he’s inhaled and exhaled a double lungful of smoke. “Is this what being deduced feels like?” he rasps. "No wonder I get called a psychopath.”

“It’s not pleasant, no. Rather like a colonoscopy without anesthesia. Remember that the next time you want to show off. But don’t worry, I won’t be this clever very often. I saw you and Irene do your weird little mating dance, remember? It’s not something you forget.” 

“John,” Sherlock begins carefully, “it was only one time—”

“It’s fine. I’d been assuming you were living in quasi-marital bliss for the whole six months, so it could be worse.” John’s brow wrinkles. “I am sorry. I didn’t like her. In fact, I rather hated her. But Irene didn’t deserve that. You didn’t deserve to find her. Nero—” he stops, shaking his head. “Poor lad. I’ll never be cross with him for throwing Cheerios again.”

Sherlock doesn’t know how to respond all this. He just takes another drag on his cigarette.

“Who killed her? Who were those men?”

“Professionals. Well, they weren’t very professional, but someone paid them. I’ve narrowed the possibilities down to a thousand suspects. Irene had a talent for collecting enemies.” Someday, Sherlock will have to do a more serious investigation. But not at present, with the rough beast of Moriarty reawakened. Months from now, Irene won’t be any deader.

Sherlock ashes his cigarette, grinding the evidence of his habit into the flagstones. Mycroft will see it tomorrow and become peevish, but no matter. 

He thinks of Nero those first days after Christmas, screaming hopelessly for his mother’s breast. He thinks of Irene’s breast, warm and swelling in his hand. Two weeks ago he felt it—tasted it. That warmth is gone now. All of her cold now, rotting in the dirt of a cemetery in Montenegro. He’ll have to ask Michael which one. He should know its name.

Sherlock wishes he’d loved her. He wishes they’d never met. For Nero’s sake, he wishes she were here. He’s so relieved she isn’t, that Nero will never be a pawn in his mother’s games. 

Perhaps Sherlock hasn’t processed Irene’s death. But that doesn’t mean he can’t see clearly. 

“I didn’t love her,” he says. “I wanted her, at times I hated her, but mostly I pitied her. She was broken. Beautiful and brilliant, but something essential had been shattered in her. It’s why she was so dangerous.” 

Sherlock sees a face. Jools Siviter, the man who broke his daughter past the hope of recovery. He doesn’t say the name, not even to John. He’ll keep Irene’s secrets. It’s all he can do for her. 

“I killed the men who killed her,” he says. “I saw their blood and brains, and I’m not sorry. I am sorry she died like she did. But her death didn’t break _me.”_

He grinds his cigarette into the floor. He looks up, but it takes him a moment to say the words. 

“John. If I ever found you like that—” 

Sherlock stops. He can’t finish that sentence. For all his powers of projection, he can’t picture John killed the way Irene was killed. He can’t see his reaction. His mind refuses to imagine it.

“You would break then. No future then, no hope.” John’s voice is so quiet, he seems to be talking to himself. “There would just be darkness. That’s all you’d see, it’s all you’d want. The blood and brains of the man who did that to me. Then everything going black.” 

Sherlock looks at him for a long time.

Then he turns away. He looks at the ashy flagstones, but what he sees is truth. He’s read all the blog posts, he’s seen all the records, but he didn’t _see._ Not until now. He sees, and it feels like razor-wire tightening behind his eyes.

 _Sex._ John doesn’t talk much about his relationships with men, though they are the deepest and most meaningful of his life. John had sex with Neville, but not after Sherlock’s death. Why not have Neville? Lovely, clever Nev, who risked his own reputation to save a dead man’s.

Why save Sherlock’s reputation? As far as you know, you’ve lost him forever. All those blog posts, the months of obsessive work. Re-interviewing every witness, re-assembling every piece of data, weathering scandal and ridicule all the while. What’s the point? 

The tone of those posts! Neville’s are defiant enough but yours—they pick at every loose thread. They pick apart the man himself, mocking, accusing, condemning. Even Moriarty, who cares so little for what normal people think of him, would be enraged. Moved to answer. To _act._

You don’t have Neville, because you know it’s not right. You can’t have a future with him. There is no future for you. You reclaim Sherlock’s reputation because it’s all you can do for him, but it’s not your true purpose. That won’t take months. Just seconds. 

“You were going to kill him,” Sherlock whispers. “Then yourself.”

This picture is clear. Moriarty, pale and leering, lured out of hiding. A public street or private building, it doesn’t matter. Anywhere John can get a clear shot. One is all he needs. And after Moriarty’s blood and brains are on the ground, John puts the gun to his own temple and—

Sherlock jumps up. He puts his head against the cold glass panes. He closes his eyes, using every bit of strength he possesses to block out that final image. He stares into the blackness of the night outside, but the dark is shot through with red. Pulsing, painful like the worst migraine. 

“Damn you, John. How could you?”

“You ask me that question? You threw yourself off a building!”

Sherlock whirls around. “Yes! To save you. To give you a future. And what do you do with my sacrifice? You plot a murder/suicide! _Do you see the logical disconnect?”_

“No,” John says. He’s stood too, hands open at his sides. There is something pleading in the gesture. Something hopeless. “I didn’t see. I didn’t care. Don’t you understand?”

Sherlock does. He knows why John’s grief took that form. After losing Sherlock, John didn’t want care or comfort. All he wanted was revenge, bloody and final. Sherlock understands this; in an odd way he’s flattered. But much more he’s horrified. All John’s strength and goodness, wasted on a mincing psychopath. The idea makes Sherlock so angry at John he could kill him. Illogical, for John can’t die. That’s not part of any plan ever. 

Sherlock takes a breath. He breathes until the stabbing pulse in his brain fades away. He makes himself remember who he’s dealing with. John is a very smart man. Once in a while, he crosses the line into brilliance. But he doesn’t see all of the possibilities. Emotion blinds him too much. It’s not his fault: He wasn’t trained by Siger Holmes. 

“I understand,” Sherlock says in a calmer tone. “But it was a bad decision. Moriarty gave me the choice of self-destruction, or seeing those I care for murdered. For you to destroy yourself and render my gesture pointless—it would have made Moriarty’s plan even more perfect.”

“He would have been dead.”

“That’s immaterial. His reactions aren’t those of a regular person. He would think his death a small price to pay for such flawless revenge. You would have made him _happy,_ John.” 

John sinks down on the sofa. “Fuck.” He balls his hands into fists and beats them against the worn cushions. “Fuck! I hate that fucking—” he stops, scowling. “Motherfucker.”

Sherlock sits beside him. He takes one of John’s hands, though John won’t look at him. Slowly, Sherlock unbends those angry fingers, clasping them in his own. It’s partly affection and partly a way of making sure that John can’t run off in a frenzy at Sherlock’s next words.

“Yesterday, Moriarty was in Singapore. Mycroft’s people have had him under surveillance.”

John’s head whips around. “For how long?”

“I don’t know. Days, probably.” When John’s eyes narrow: “I know. My brother’s slyness is irritating. But there’s no point getting on a plane now. Moriarty disappeared right after the news of my resurrection broke. Gabriel is looking for him, but I’m not hopeful.” 

“He’s coming back here.” It’s not a question. John’s whole body has tensed.

Sherlock nods. “We can’t do anything hasty or stupid. The consequences would be disastrous.”

John looks down, pursing his lips.

“I don’t want a dead vigilante for a husband. Nor a live jailbird. Consider the fact that if you kill Moriarty and ruin our future, he’ll have the last laugh.”

John raises his gaze to Sherlock’s, sighing. “What do we do?”

“We’ll discuss that at length. You’re a good strategist when you’re not blinded by rage. I look forward to your input.” Sherlock stifles a yawn. “But not now. I’m tired and full of shepherd’s pie. I don’t even have the energy to shag again, unless you’re willing to do all the work.”

John doesn’t smile. “He’s so bloody logical when he’s not faking his death,” he mutters. “No consequences then, oh no.”

Sherlock, taking into account the lateness of the hour and the demands of the day, lets this pass. Instead he keeps hold of John’s hand and leads him out of the increasingly chill conservatory. There has been enough strategy for one day, and certainly enough consequences.


	47. Chapter 47

** Sherlock, 6 January 2013 (cont.) **

Nineteen Chapel Street is always quiet, but never more than at night. It’s only a quarter to 10, but a funereal hush has fallen over the lounge. Grandfather Edmund stares down sternly from his place of honor between the windows. His glower dares you to speak a single word. 

One of Sherlock’s recurring nightmares as a child was being chased around the house by the specter of Grandfather Edmund, who had climbed out of his dusty frame specifically to enact punishment on his small, wayward descendent. What Sherlock was guilty of, he never knew. But he knew that whatever he had done, it was horrible. 

An echo of that anxiety remains with him even now. Sherlock grips John’s hand a bit tighter than necessary and leads him upstairs. On the next floor, a light shines under the door of the master bedroom. But no sound comes from within. Though Mycroft sleeps no more than five hours a night, his capacity for silence would have impressed even Grandfather Edmund. 

John’s voice isn’t very loud, but in the oppressive atmosphere it’s startling. “Mycroft has your parents’ old room?”

Sherlock nods.

“Don’t suppose it’s been done over.”

Sherlock shakes his head.

“Sleeping in the bed you were conceived in. That’s healthy.”

“The mattress has been changed.”

“Ah. All the difference, then.”

Sherlock just sighs as they pass the last cache of pictures before the stairs to the third floor. As they go, he catches a glimpse of Aunt Harriet, smiling and resplendent in her debutante finery. (She died of pneumonia in 1943. In that grim year of war, even her father’s connections couldn’t procure the penicillin that would have saved her. Siger claimed not to remember his much-older sister very well. But look at the picture of Violet Huxley on her wedding day, if you can find it in the basement. Look at the eyes, the hair color, the smile. You’ll see how much Siger forgot.)

With an illogical amount of relief, Sherlock reaches the top of the stairs. He steers them to John’s room—Sherrinford’s, once. Its bed is less narrow than the one in Sherlock’s room. 

The bed is still narrow, though, and they have to spoon up to fit comfortably. Sherlock doesn’t mind. He slides his hand around John’s waist and up his shirt. Sherlock never had a teddy bear or any other innocent childhood companion. Now he sees why children find them so comforting. John smells good, like musky male and a hint of the minty shampoo he favors. The flesh of his belly is warm and smooth; it twitches under Sherlock’s fingers. Sherlock finds himself twitching too, further down. Teddy isn’t supposed to cause an erection, is he? So much for innocence.

“God, I’m 18 again,” John says. “Groped on a musty quilt, staring at that damned poster.”

Sherlock’s fingers pause. “Tobias Gregson liked _A Clockwork Orange?”_

“Worshiped it. I’ve shagged so many times with that movie playing in the background, I still get a stiffy when I hear Beethoven’s Ninth.” He sighs. “The movie’s all right, but I think the poster is fucking ugly. Don’t know why Toby insisted on having it.”

“Ford’s choice is easy to understand. He’s been obsessed with Kubrick since he was a boy.”

“Yep, Nev’s made a blog post to that effect. I hear Ford’s sensitive on the subject, but I bet he gets over it. He’s still trying to get in there. Won’t be hard: Neville’s lovely but he’s such a slut.”

“So is Ford, if you catch him between films.”

“What about during films?”

“Monkish, to put it mildly. His work is all-consuming.”

“Hmm, that doesn’t sound familiar. Not at all.” 

Sherlock frowns. “One has to respect such focus—”

“Respect away. But if you go monkish every time we have a case, I’ll divorce you on grounds of unreasonable behavior. Take half your money and find myself a cute blond to shag. Clear?”

“Crystal.” Sherlock pauses. “A male or female blond?”

“One of each. I could afford it, couldn’t I?”

Bloody bisexuals. “Your protest is noted.”

“Good.” John shifts a bit, looking absently around the room. “That’s Ford as a teenager, isn’t it? With—oh my God, it’s wee Sherlock!” 

He gets up and grabs the framed photograph that had been shoved in a corner of the bookshelf. He grins at it while Sherlock squirms. “Fucking hell, mate. You weren’t too Edward Gorey, were you? _S is for Sherlock, attacked by a bear._ It’s the only thing that explains the state of your hair.”

Sherlock sits up, arms crossed over his chest. “You’re not amusing.”

“My God, the scowl hasn’t changed in 25 years. Though I must admit that the hair is improved.” John sits beside Sherlock, squeezing his knee. “Don’t be so sensitive. You were lovely, just like now.” John peers at the picture again. “Ford’s changed a bit though, hasn’t he? Spectacles! I never would have guessed. He looks like a handsome Harry Potter.” 

Sherlock inspects the photograph. He hasn’t seen it for years. He and Ford are on one of the wicker sofas in the conservatory. Ford is sprawled out, but there’s plenty of room for Sherlock. Ford is no more than 16 and painfully thin. But quite handsome, spectacles and all. Sherlock is half-turned away from the camera, but Ford stares directly into it. Behind the glasses his eyes are very blue, and he’s smiling. Mother’s smile, wide and inviting. Her heir in so many ways: On his lap is a book. Sherlock notes the title with a pang. _D’Aulaires’ Book of Greek Myths._

“Ford used to read to you?” John says. “That’s nice.”

“Perhaps he did,” Sherlock says. “I don’t remember.”

“I guess you two aren’t close. I mean, I didn’t know he existed until yesterday.”

“He left England for good when I was seven. We never had much contact after that.”

“Except your gap year.”

Sherlock’s head jerks up. John nods. “Who else would you have stayed with in California? It’s a pretty obvious deduction.” His face darkens. “Ford got you started on the coke, didn’t he?”

“Yes.” Hesitantly, Sherlock reaches out towards the picture. He traces over Ford’s handsome face, his warm smile. Seductive even at 16. “It’s not exactly what you think. He was trying to help me.”

“To do what? Wear a hole in your septum?”

“Help me be—normal. For a while it worked. But he should have known the plan was doomed to failure. That he didn’t speaks to his own strangeness.” Sherlock looks up, smiling a bit. “He pretends extremely well, but I lived with him in LA for two years. Sherrinford Holmes is very strange. A neurotic introvert, just like his brothers. Possibly even more obsessive—I can’t tell you how many times he made me watch _A Clockwork Orange._ Without the groping, of course.” 

“Quite a performance he puts on.”

“Yes, he’s the best actor of us all. A superlative liar: He even fooled Siger Holmes. Upset all of our Father’s best laid plans, and that didn’t happen often. Father had decided that his oldest son was going into politics. Be Minister Holmes, just like Grandfather Thomas. Perhaps even Prime Minister—he’s got the charisma for it.”

“Despite your brother being the black sheep? And a queer sheep at that.” 

“When I labeled him as such, I meant dodgy friends, cannabis in the sock drawer, that sort of thing. He and Mycroft were at school much of the time, and when they weren’t Father was often away on business. Their interactions were infrequent, and Ford mostly did what was expected. Except for being gay, which Father was wise enough to realize couldn’t be helped. But he didn’t see it as a real problem. The right wife, a bit of discretion, these things are managed. 

“Ford’s sudden announcement that he was attending UCLA instead of Oxford couldn’t help but disappoint. But the shock of it was what enraged Father. Few people dared to surprise him. The _actual_ Prime Minister didn’t do that. Ford was a few weeks shy of 18, but he told the old man to fuck off. Stormed out of the house and went straight to the airport. That’s a memory I do have.”

John looks impressed despite himself. “Plucky boy.”

“You have no idea.” Sherlock stands, taking the photograph and putting it back on the bookcase. “It’s lucky that Ford was so rebellious. I can’t imagine the repercussions if both my brothers had gone into the family business. We’d be living in a different world, and that’s no exaggeration.”

John stretches on the bed, putting his arms behind his head. “Maybe we should ask Ford what to do about Moriarty.”

“I think not. He’d use any petition as leverage to acquire the screen rights. Do you want to be played by Daniel Craig in a jumper?”

“I wouldn’t mind. Fassbender could play you.”

“I don’t look like Michael Fassbender.”

“Twins from the neck down. Have you seen _Shame?”_ John sighs. “I suppose there’s no chance that onscreen us will be shagging. Too bad. I’d pay money to see Craig and Fassbender go at it.” 

Sherlock blinks at this. Not at the image of Craig and Fassbender shagging, though that’s rather compelling. It’s the sudden awareness of what they’re doing. 

He and John are in a bedroom together, calmly discussing things that would have been taboo just two days ago. Family secrets, personal longings. _The_ secret: Their feelings for each other. No shame, no veiled and painful hints. All those years of silence shattered. 

_I’m going to marry him. He said yes._

The thought makes him more lightheaded than a whole carton of Dunhill Reds. An even more delicious sensation, one he’s known so seldom in his life: pure happiness, unfettered by doubt. No squinting sideways at this, looking for snares, shortcomings, hidden agendas. None of the hesitation his training taught him to feel. The deep distrust of every emotional attachment. 

John is small and scarred and frequently grumpy. He bets imprudently on football and flirts shamelessly with women. He hates cats and loves ugly jumpers. He’ll always nag Sherlock about the eyeballs in the pantry, and he’ll never give up his friendship with Neville St. Clair. He’s halfway to grey now. In 30 years he’ll be a white-haired, wizened, cranky old man.

 _And he’ll be mine. Just mine._

Sherlock trembles at the realization. He grips the bookcase until he hurts.

“Sherlock? Everything okay? You look like you’ve come over all queer.”

_Oh, John. Oh my love. That is the understatement of the bloody century._

Sherlock wants to laugh, but he’s too overcome. The desire pierces him like a huge, hot needle. He wants this so badly. He wants John. He had him last night and this morning. Not two hours ago, he had him. But it’s not enough. 

He approaches the bed. Perhaps his face betrays his thoughts, or perhaps his husband just knows him very well. John’s face has become serious. “I thought you were tired,” he says softly. 

Sherlock crawls onto the bed. He doesn’t stop until he’s hovering over John, the smaller man’s shoulders trapped between Sherlock’s hands, his hips caged by Sherlock’s knees. John couldn’t get away if he wanted to. He _won’t._

“Does this mean I don’t have to do all the work?” 

Sherlock shoves John into the mattress and bites his neck. 

“Oww! I suppose that’s a yes.”

Sherlock savors the flesh of John’s neck before sliding his mouth up, nibbling at John’s jaw. John makes a needy gasp and grabs Sherlock by the ears, pulling him in so he can kiss him wetly. For a few minutes they just kiss, grinding against each other like two randy teenagers. The old bed squeaks loudly, but their moans are muffled by the posters on the walls.

This room has seen it before. Sherrinford sometimes brought his tricks here, during the long summer nights when Siger was gone. (Siger was always gone.) Mycroft might make a fuss over the noise, but he never told their father. He’d lost the appetite for informing by then. Often he didn’t even wake, but Sherlock always did. Standing in the hall outside, hearing the squeaks and moans and wondering what those boys were doing to his brother. Whatever it was, Sherrinford didn’t seem to mind. He’d be mellow the next day, eyes bright but sated behind his spectacles. He had time for Sherlock then. That’s when he read him stories, Sherlock remembers now. 

Sherlock doesn’t blame him. Spending your vacations from Eton picking up dodgy boys in clubs was one way of staying sane. Perhaps Sherlock should have done the same; it might have saved so much suffering later. He wishes he’d been the one groping John when they were 18. (John is five years older, but in fantasy such details are irrelevant.) Just Sherlock and John always, no other lovers at all, no white lines and blue lights, bullet wounds and psychosomatic limps. 

No more suffering, not for John. Sherlock will protect him whether John likes it or not. John will be happy and safe. He’ll live to become the cranky old man he was meant to be.

Sherlock pulls back. He puts his hands on either side of John’s face. 

“Let’s get married tomorrow.”

John blinks up at him. “What about the waiting period?”

“Mycroft will manage it. I don’t want to wait 15 days.”

John smirks. “You really hate paperwork, don’t you?” 

“You can keep the money.” Sherlock pulls open John’s trousers. “I keep this.” 

“Legal custody of my penis is not up for negoti— _oohh.”_

John sighs as his foreskin is slid gently back. With his tongue, Sherlock traces the ripe crease underneath once, twice. He sucks on the juicy glans until it shifts and swells, exposing fully. Then he licks the ridge of John’s cockhead.

“Um, alternate weekends, maybe?” 

Sherlock’s mouth is too busy to reply. He sticks his tongue into the now-weeping slit. John tastes like musky vanilla. Delicious. But Sherlock moves on, nibbling John’s frenulum. He teases that salty bridge of sensitive flesh until John is grinding his ass into the bed, babbling a stream of soft, obscene nonsense. 

Sherlock sucks the whole head of John’s cock into his mouth while he cups John’s testicles. John fists his fingers in Sherlock’s hair, yanking too hard. Sherlock would grin if he could, but instead he redoubles his efforts. He takes the rest of John in, not quite deep-throating him but swallowing as much of that succulent shaft as he can. 

He _loves_ doing this. He’s loved it since Victor Trevor taught him how to do it all those years ago. Ford told his assistant to be nice to Sherlock, and Victor was always diligent in his work. Sherlock should hate Ford for the interference, but as John begins to thrust, fucking Sherlock’s mouth while yanking fistfuls of hair, Sherlock is glad of the knowledge. He’ll keep John safe, he’ll make him happy. He’ll suck him and fuck him so well that John will never look at another blond, male or female.

“Fuuucck Sherlooock!” 

John comes in two short bursts of musky-vanilla come. Sherlock swallows it all, then licks John clean. He places a soft kiss on John’s belly. Then he raises his head to look at him.

John just stares for a moment or two, panting softly. “It’s not even my birthday.”

“Hmm. Imagine what you’re in for in April.”

“I’ll start carbo-loading now. Fucking hell. ” John runs hands down his face. Then he flexes his fingers, which must be cramped from nearly pulling Sherlock bald in the last five minutes. “I’m happy to return the favor, but you’ll have to give me a sec.”

“Not tonight.” Sherlock gets up from the bed. “Strip. I’ll be back in one minute.” 

John starts wiggling out of his trousers. It seems Sherlock isn’t the only one made obliging by an orgasm, though John is easier after fellatio than straight-up intercourse. Sherlock files this useful fact away for future reference as he darts across the hall to get the necessary supplies.

He grabs the Tesco bag from where John left it on the floor. Pausing only to give Uncle Evie a wink, he runs back across the hall. John is obligingly naked, penis half-flaccid but appealingly wet. The red cockhead glistens like a luscious fruit in its tender rind. Sherlock feels his mouth water again, but he tears his eyes away. No more fellatio this evening; that might be too much of the same. John mustn’t be given the opportunity to get bored.

Sherlock tosses the lube and condoms on the bedside table and starts undressing.

“Our options are kind of limited in here,” John says, indicating the narrow bed. “Hmm. I might rather fancy the bookcase.”

Staring right at Sherrinford and wee Sherlock? Even now, Sherlock isn’t that strange.

“I’ve already considered the logistics. Turn over on your stomach.” 

John does, while Sherlock discards the last of his clothes and goes to the bed. As he passes the bookcase, he turns the photograph on its face. 

John is small but very sturdy. His back, buttocks and thighs are solid with muscle. Sherlock pauses for a moment to enjoy the view before sitting on the edge of the bed. 

He takes the bed pillow and taps John’s hip. John lifts up, and Sherlock slides the pillow under John’s stomach. He runs a hand over John’s ass, now quite temptingly displayed, then stretches for the lube. Keeping it in one hand, he kneels on the bed, straddling John. 

John sits up on his elbows. He winces a bit, and Sherlock frowns. “I forgot about your shoulder.”

“I’m fine. Just a bit stiff is all.”

“If you’re uncomfortable, we don’t have to—”

“Fuck the shoulder. Fuck me. Come _on.”_ John wiggles his ass at him. “Or if you’re going to be that much of a girl about it, I could top—ow!” John winces again, this time at the bracing slap Sherlock has given those mocking buttocks.

“What’s good for the goose is good for the gander.”

“You do realize that makes you the goose, right?”

Sherlock administers another sharp slap. Really, this is too much fun. No wonder John went there during their previous encounter. Another slap, and though John yelps again Sherlock also notes the red flush creeping down John’s back, the quickening of his breath. He knew John likes being bitten, so it’s logical that the man would enjoy another sort of pain. This opens up some fascinating possibilities for the future, but tonight Sherlock is content to open the lube and rub it soothingly into the marks on John’s rear. Then he places a kiss on John’s shoulder and slips a finger between his cheeks. He finds the perineum and rubs it, gently. John gives a squeak and buries his face in the mattress. Sherlock takes this as a good sign, and pushes a finger inside. 

Perhaps it’s the blowjob or the spanking, but John opens more quickly than he did this morning. Sherlock’s middle finger joins his index, and they slide further into John’s passage. He’s hot and silky, a delightful sensation, and Sherlock could keep on exploring. But instead he finds that tell-tale bump a few inches in and presses it.

“Ohh, fuck me.” 

“Not yet,” Sherlock says, leaning down and nipping John’s ear. He presses harder on John’s g-spot. John moans and starts grinding into the bed. Sherlock feels a corresponding pulling in his own cock, which is fully hard and begging for attention. But he ignores it and puts more pressure on John’s inner walls, pushing his fingers against that tender bump which kisses the prostate.

“Oh, God. You know just what to do, don’t you? Don’t stop, love. Please don’t, please . . .” 

Sherlock hooks his fingers inside of John, adding still more pressure. He gently pulls John onto his side, then Sherlock reaches around with his free hand and starts stroking John’s cock. It’s hard again, twitching and pulsing under Sherlock’s fingers. John’s pleas are dissolving into the gibberish of someone about to come his brains out for the second time in ten minutes. 

Sherlock bites hard on the curve of John’s neck. John comes so loudly that even the mattress and all the papers on the walls can’t do much to muffle it. Sherlock gathers John against him, pressing his face into the sweaty bump at the top of John’s spine. Sherlock’s now-desperate erection is less important than seeing John through the aftershocks.

If Danica interrupts them again, he’s sending her back to Montenegro by fucking Parcel Post. 

Perhaps she’s given up on the idea of quieting them down, for they hear nothing but their own breathing. But even as John seems to be calming, Sherlock remains agitated. Unfulfilled.

John blows out a final shuddering breath and turns over on his other side, facing Sherlock. He kisses him, nipping at Sherlock’s lower lip before saying softly, “What’s it going to be then, eh?”

Sherlock manages a smile at the quote, before pressing his forehead into John’s and saying, “Missionary. I know that’s boring, but I want to see your face.”

“Boring. Not exactly how I’d describe the last half-hour.” John settles on his back. “Do as you like with me. Well, no more prostate massage. I’d like to save a few brain cells for a rainy day.”

Sherlock gets to his knees as best he can, given that John’s legs are in the way. Missing the big bed at Baker Street once again, he squirts lube onto his palm and spreads it over his own cock. The neglected organ swells a bit more, making John’s pupils dilate in response.

“I take it back. Fassbender doesn’t have a patch on you.” 

“Thanks,” Sherlock says, and bends forwards. He hooks John’s legs over his shoulders, then leans down to kiss him. “Tell me we can dispense with further foreplay. If I don’t shove my cock inside you in the next five seconds, my head is going to explode.”

“And it’s such a nice head. Shove away.” 

Sherlock does. Though carefully, because even prepped and post-orgasm, John can still be quite tight. Oh, but it’s a superb tightness, silky walls first resisting, pushing painfully but then giving so beautifully. Accepting, gripping, drawing you deeper in. Sherlock pulls almost all of the way out and then pushes in harder, gasping as he buries his cock in slick heat.

John hasn’t hardened again—the man is only human—but his eyes have glazed, pupils huge and black. He looks exhausted and a little stoned. “Nev fucked me just this way,” he murmurs.

Sherlock freezes mid-thrust. He stares at him. “What?”

John blinks, as if just realizing he said those words aloud. Then he nods slowly. “He got deep in. But what I felt was you. I wanted so badly for it to be you. When I came, I saw your face.” He reaches up, tracing his fingers over Sherlock’s cheek. “I didn’t know how I felt until that moment. But after that I knew. _You,_ Sherlock. Just you.” 

“I wish you’d told me,” Sherlock whispers.

“I was—afraid.” Sherlock can see from John’s eyes what that admission cost him. “I suppose I am a coward. I’ve fucked 50 other people, and somehow none of them touched me. Not really. You hadn’t done any more than brush my shoulder then, but you got in. So deep it gutted me.” John bites his lip. “I’ll try to be a good husband. I don’t promise miracles, but I will try.”

 _You’re the miracle,_ Sherlock thinks. But what he does is kiss John and then thrust again. He tries to be gentle but he can’t quite manage it. He wants to get deep in, so much deeper than any of those 50 people. He wants to blot out the memory of Missy and Jenny and Sarah and Lucy (and Toby and Mark and Sonny and bloody Neville) forever. 

He wants to get all the way in. He wants to fuck him until John comes again. If it takes all night, if it takes forever. But Sherlock is, despite what anyone online theorizes, only human. He wants this so badly, and John feels so good. Sherlock has thrust just a few more times before he feels the red burn beginning in his gut. He thinks of chemical equations, French irregular verbs, even Mycroft’s disapproving face, to no avail. 

It doesn’t help that John is thrusting back, tightening his inner muscles so they caress Sherlock’s swollen cock. Sherlock would tell him to stop but he’s lost the power of speech, all he can do is thrust again, deeper in, deep as he can go, until the burn reaches a flashpoint and everything goes bright, brighter, brightest. But in the middle of that blinding light, he still sees John’s eyes. His blue and boundless gaze, the deepest thing that Sherlock has ever known.

_You're mine. But I’m also yours. I’ve fucked so many people I’ve lost count, but none of them have touched me. Just you, John. I’ll never feel anyone else. What a fucking miracle that is._

He puts his head in John’s neck. For a few minutes they stay joined together. Sherlock feels his heart pound, sees his pulse in front of his eyes. His muscles tremble like he just finished a brutal workout. He’s sweating hard, which must be why there’s so much water running down his face.

Finally, he withdraws. At first he’s bewildered when John gets up. Then he sees the (again) unopened condoms on the desk and understands. John disappears down the hall to the bathroom for a few minutes, and Sherlock misses him painfully. But at last he returns. They pull back the bedclothes and spoon together. Sherlock slides his hand around John’s waist, hand flat on John’s stomach. No erection this time, though if you give him a few minutes . . . 

No. Sherlock feels his eyelids growing heavy. He’s going to sleep like the dead tonight. But he isn’t dead, not anymore. Thirty-three years old today, the same age as Christ during his trials. Sherlock hopes his own Golgotha is far behind him. 

“What a day,” John says, yawning. “The most amazing thing about the last 12 hours? You did the fucking dishes.”

Sherlock bites John’s shoulder. Snickering, John stretches forward and turns out the bedside light. After a few moments, Sherlock feels John relax against him. 

Sherlock is almost asleep himself when he hears John’s voice again. The teasing tone is gone. 

“Moriarty killed Irene.” 

Sherlock’s eyelids snap open. It takes him a moment to answer. “She had many enemies.” 

“I know that. But who else would send assassins on Christmas Day?”

“Moriarty was trying to kill me. The assassins deliberately waited until I’d left the house.”

“But it’s not really about death with Moriarty, is it? You said so yourself. It’s about _winning._ It’s about pain. He killed Irene because you loved her.”

“I didn’t love her.”

“You had a baby together. You were living as a married couple. From the outside, that would look like love. Her death wouldn’t break you, but how could Moriarty know that?”

“Your theory doesn’t fit the pattern. Moriarty doesn’t miscalculate.”

“But he’s not good with emotions. He’d have to judge by appearances, since he doesn’t feel things himself. Not love, anyway. You got lucky.” John pauses. “That sounds awful. You know what I mean.”

“I’m tired, John,” Sherlock says, after a pause. “Can we talk about this tomorrow?” 

“Right. Of course.” John yawns again. “The idea just came to me while I was falling asleep. You know how that happens. Maybe I’m wrong. I’ll shut up.” Within a minute, his body has relaxed again. Soon comes the sound of soft snores. 

Sherlock, however, is wide awake. 

He waits until he’s sure John is really asleep. Then he gets out of bed. He stands at the window, looking down at the street. He sees vanishing headlights, a few late pedestrians. (If that married pediatrician doesn’t want to get caught cheating, he should wear different shoes to his mistress’s house.) But Sherlock doesn’t really see. What he sees are red knife wounds in white flesh.

When they discussed the matter on the way back from Budva, Mycroft didn’t seem to think—unless he was trying to protect Sherlock. He’s been doing a vexing amount of that lately. 

It wasn’t Moriarty. But if it were, what a gross miscalculation. The person Sherlock was living with, raising a child with, wasn’t his real spouse. But now . . .

Now things are exactly as they appear. If it was Moriarty, how enraged he must be. And how determined. There would be no bargaining with him this time, no fall long enough to keep him at bay. Death was never the point, anyway. This is about pain. Killing the love of Sherlock’s life—there’s an ocean of agony in that. A vast sea of bloody victory.

It _wasn’t_ Moriarty. Though there’s no doubt he wants to see Sherlock broken, that doesn’t mean he killed Irene. Sherlock is the real target, just as he was on the roof of St. Barts. Moriarty will come for Sherlock before he ever comes for John—or Nero. Sherlock can protect them.

_Like you protected Irene? How optimistic, boy. How idiotic, given the evidence of your own eyes. Mycroft knew the truth the second he saw Irene’s bloodied corpse. Why didn’t you?_

Sherlock clenches his hands, willing Siger’s jeering voice to be silent. He makes himself lie down. He puts his arm around John’s waist, feeling him breathe. He counts the breaths for comfort, trying to slow the frantic beating of his own heart. 

He looks up at the _Clockwork Orange_ poster. He sees Alex DeLarge brandish his shiny knife. In the half-light from the window, the psychopath leers knowingly. 

Sherlock closes his eyes. He holds John tight. He doesn’t sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter notes and pictures, what more could you ask for? The blog posts can be found here:
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> [Author Notes at Dreamwidth](http://chase820.dreamwidth.org/322905.html)
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> [Author Notes at Livejournal](http://chase820.livejournal.com/332710.html)
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> Links to other notes can be found at the end of chapters 5, 12, 20, 23, 28, 29, 32, 38, and 42.


	48. Chapter 48

** Sherlock, 7 January 2013 **

_“Marsyas, a satyr who was capering about in the Phrygian woods, found a flute that had been discarded by the goddess Athena. So he began to play upon it. He hopped through the woods, boasting that now he could make better music than Apollo himself._

_“Apollo frowned when he heard that this beast had dared compare himself to the god of music, and he stormed down from Olympus. He found Marsyas, who was so delighted with his own playing that he challenged Apollo to a contest._

_“‘You shall have your contest,” said Apollo. “‘But if I win, you lose your hide.’_

_“The nine muses, of course, were the judges, as well as King Midas of Phrygia, who had long been a friend to the satyrs. After both Apollo and Marsyas played, the nine muses agreed that Apollo was by far the better musician. Foolish Midas, however, voted for Marsyas._

_“Apollo disdainfully turned his lyre upside down, playing just as well as before. He ordered Marsyas to turn his flute and do the same. But not a sound came from Marsyas’ flute, however hard he blew, and even Midas had to admit that the satyr’s flute was inferior to Apollo’s lyre._

_“So Marsyas lost, and Apollo began cutting off the satyr’s skin to make a drum of it._

_“Marsyas cried out: ‘Why are you stripping me of my very self? Oh no, I am sorry, the flute was not worth this torture!’ As he screamed, the skin was sliced away from his body until he was nothing but a gaping wound. Blood ran everywhere, nerves lay bare and exposed, and his veins throbbed without covering. One could see his pulsing entrails, and the vital organs in his chest were revealed . . . ”_

“Strange. I don’t remember the children’s version of the tale being so graphic.”

“It’s not.” His brother closes _D’Aulaires’ Book of Greek Myths_ and pushes up his spectacles. “The last bit’s from Ovid, I did a mash-up. Makes for a better ending, don’t you think? I also cleaned up the syntax. The D’Aulaires never met a subordinate clause they didn’t like.” 

“Why can’t you leave things alone, Sherrinford? Why must you always interfere?” 

“I’m a storyteller. Just like Father.”

“Mother was the storyteller.”

Sherrinford stretches on the worn wicker sofa. “Father too. He wasn’t as eloquent as Mummy, but when he told the tale the blood was real. Even Maggie Thatcher didn’t dare surprise him; Everybody knows you can’t stand against Zeus.”

Sherlock makes an impatient sound. “Can we get back to the book? I want to hear the chapter about Hephaestus again.”

“Hephaestus, hmm. Faithful, crippled, not really hot but surprisingly butch— wonder why you like him?” Sherrinford says. “If that was John and you’re Apollo, I suppose Mycroft is Hades. The Unseen One. Nobody who enters his realm escapes. So how did the beast escape? Who forced Hades to turn the key? It wasn’t Zeus, he’s long gone and good riddance. Unless—” 

Sherrinford stops, looking pensive. “Unless there are two.”

“If you’re not going to read, I’m leaving.” Sherlock stands, but his arm is caught.

 _“You_ finish,” Sherrinford hisses. “You’ve already won the contest. Now you just need a knife.”

Sherlock stares at him. “Who are you? Not Zeus. Who, then?”

Sherrinford smiles his seductive smile. He pats Sherlock’s arm. “Silly rabbit. I’m Dionysus, the god of wine and ecstasy. But I wasn’t born that way. When I was a boy, the old gods tore me to pieces. I rose as someone else. Someone mad. In my madness, I’ve killed multitudes. I’m the god who was murdered and the god who murders. A god of death.”

“Like Hades,” Sherlock whispers. 

“We’re twins,” Sherrinford says. “In the underworld the blood is real, but I _create_ reality, do you understand? My followers drink the wine and chew the leaves and get lost in my mysteries. For a few hours, I make them gods. I made you. Long ago, with my brother Death.”

“You’re insane.” Sherlock tries to pull away, but he’s held in a grip that’s like iron and ice.

“You’re ours. If you think I lie, go upstairs.” 

Sherlock is released, but he doesn’t move. “I don’t want to go.” He’s shamed by the fear in his voice. He sounds like a child. He _is_ a child, no more than five. Young enough to be read stories.

Sherrinford stands, putting the book down. He bends his thin form. (Oh, but he is handsome, as handsome as Death.) Cool lips brush Sherlock’s cheek. He fixes Sherlock with his eyes, which are not blue and not grey. A brighter, colder shade. 

“Go,” he says. “See what the satyr has done. And after you’ve seen, remember what you are.” 

Sherlock goes. There’s no other choice, he’s always known that. He leaves the refuge of the conservatory. Comforting, if not warm—but nothing in this house ever is.

There was sun in the conservatory, but the lounge is dim. The windows are shrouded in their heavy curtains; no light can come in. In the not-light he sees the whites of his ancestors’ eyes. They glow like a hundred pitiless moons. One gaze is brighter than the rest. More pitiless.

“You’ll get what you deserve,” Grandfather Edmund hisses. “Weakling. Idiot. _Freak.”_ He stretches his grey lips. His jaw clicks like a dummy’s, up and down, up and down. There is nothing but blackness behind it. A bottomless sucking maw, as if he would swallow the world.

“I’m coming for you. Run all you like, it won’t matter.” Click. Click. “I’ll suck the marrow from your bones. Someday I’ll feast on your sweetmeats—so delicious! In one way, you won’t be an utter disappointment. Someday! Maybe today! Why wait?” 

Skeletal fingers scrape on old wood, as he begins to climb out of his frame.

Sherlock runs for the stairs. The ancestors titter and shriek. Their dead eyes glow. He can hear footsteps behind him, skittering like a giant rat’s. He dares a glance over his shoulder, and that is such a mistake. Grandfather is coming, jaw stretching, stretching, until his face is nothing but a huge chomping hole with razored teeth. Sherlock can’t escape, it’s going to suck him in, chew him to pieces until there’s nothing left, nothing—

He runs, but it’s like running under water. He tries so hard, leaping up, up, until it seems as if his hair must brush the ceiling. But he can’t seem to cover any distance. The staircase grows further away with each stride. Laughter and shrieks behind. Skitters and clicks. They sound ever-closer. Scrape! Click! Scrape! Click! 

A cold dead hand closes around his ankle—

Sherlock screams. The sound echoes in the dimness. It grows louder and louder, swallowing all of the other sounds. It grows deafening before finally dying away. 

Even now, he’s humiliated at his loss of control. His weakness. Such a disappointment—

He’s humiliated, but he’s also free. The cold fingers have dropped away. The skitters and clicks are receding. The ancestors’ laughter has fallen silent. At last he reaches the stairs.

Exhausted, his head pounding, he makes his way to the second floor. He moves quickly, though he’s reluctant to reach his destination. Before he gets to the next flight, a touch stops him. 

Harriet, resplendent in her white satin presentation gown, is smiling at him. Her soft fingers stroke his cheek. “Baby brother,” she whispers. “Don’t go. It’s been such a long time.”

Sherlock steps back, shaking his head. “I’m sorry. I’m not who you think I am.”

“You are,” she says, widening her brown eyes. “Don’t you remember, sweetheart? How scared you were when you were small! You would come to my room, and I held you in the dark. Then it was better, wasn’t it? No more nightmares.”

“That wasn’t me. That was Siger.”

The woman nods. Her eyes are still brown, but they are sharper and sadder. Her white dress is shorter, and she’s wearing a veil over her long hair. 

“Your father never forgot,” Violet says. “I held him in the dark, and for a while it was better. But the nightmare returned, of course it did. We were sleeping in the bed he was conceived in! How easily the darkness found him. I couldn’t keep it back.” 

“So you left.” Sherlock’s voice is calm. He’s not angry with his mother. He doesn’t know her.

She shivers in her short dress. “I tried to help you, all of you. But Siger’s darkness was too strong. It took my sons before they left my body. For a long time I didn’t know that. I was foolish, but now I’m wiser. All of you taken. Even my beautiful Sheridan.”

“Sherrinford.”

“It doesn’t matter. Neither is his name now. Poor lamb, he doesn’t know who he is.” 

Sherlock does feel anger then. Deep in his gut, banked like glowing embers. Perhaps it’s always been there, whether he knew it or not. 

“You always loved him best.”

“I love you,” she says. “Don’t you remember, sweetheart?” The Woman is still slender and brunette, but now her eyes are ice blue. “You loved me and you killed me.” Her voice grows raspy. A red splotch stains the neck of her white silk pajamas. 

“I—I didn’t love you. And I certainly didn’t—”

“Liar.” Irene’s voice has become a gurgling hiss. The wound at her neck is redder and redder. “Christmas Eve, you drank me and fucked me and loved me. Then you killed me. Reme—” she stops with a horrible whistling sound. She can’t talk now. Her windpipe has been severed. 

She smiles, tilting her head far back, so Sherlock can see deep into the wound. He catches the gleam of vertebrae and spins around, heading for the stairs. Running again.

 _Go, then._ Irene can’t talk, but somehow he hears. _You’re not who I thought you were. But you know what you are, don’t you?_

Laughter, low and hissing. Sherlock escapes it by climbing to the third floor.

It’s quieter up here. This little-low ceilinged hallway with four doors, one for three bedrooms and the bath. It’s familiar here, and for a moment it’s much better. Silent, if nothing else. The ancestors on the walls are silent. (He should have known what that meant. It wasn’t a kindly silence. Even the ancestors can be terrified, safe as they are in their sepia worlds.)

It’s so quiet. There should be sound up here. The sound of movement, a familiar voice. The susurration of _his_ breath, so steady and comforting. Sherlock should be able to hear him. 

“John?” he says. In the heavy hush of the third floor, the sound of his words is shocking.

But he tries again. “John? Are you awake?” 

He reaches the first door. Sherlock has stood in this hall a hundred times, listening. But no sounds come, no saucy squeaks or randy moans. There is no sound, not even breath.

Sherlock puts his head against the old wood for a moment. He smells the sour smell of ancient varnish. Then he makes his fingers grip the corroded metal of the knob and slowly turn it.

This room is brighter than the ones downstairs. In fact, it’s brighter than Sherlock has ever seen it before, and much bigger. Morning sunlight streams through the many windows in a dazzling flood. It doesn’t look like Chapel Street at all. Everything here is bright and white and blinding. On the other side of all that glass is the glittering void of sea and sky.

Sherlock looks at the enormous painting hung over the bed. He looks into the Woman’s blank and lovely gaze. From behind her bouquet of white orchids, she’s smirking at him. 

“No,” he whispers. “Not here, not Budva. Not again.” 

But he can smell the truth. Though the room is white and elegant, it stinks like an abattoir. His nostrils are assaulted by the coppery stench. The scent of her blood, he’s gagging on it.

“Silly rabbit,” the Woman says clearly. Rising from blue satin, her white neck is unmarked. “Pictures don’t bleed. But him—” she stops, sighs. “Poor little cripple. He was so faithful.”

Sherlock puts his hands to his temples. He presses down, but this has no effect on the sudden, excruciating pain there. He backs away towards the door. Too late, too late. He sees red blood streaking down the white silk sheets of the bed, puddling on the bleached wood floor. 

“This can’t—” Sherlock stops, fighting for control. “This can’t happen! I died so it wouldn’t.”

“You didn’t,” the Woman says. “Reichenbach was just another game, and you didn’t play to win. The beast did, though. It piped the tune and you danced. You lost, and you’re still losing! If you won, would it matter? Where’s your knife, boy?”

As she’s spoken, her voice has grown deeper. Blue silk has become grey wool, long black hair gone short and silver. Siger looms above, coming right out of the frame, huge and disapproving. 

“Come closer,” he growls. 

“No.”

“Sherlock—”

 _“No._ You don’t tell me what to do. You’re long gone and good riddance!”

His father’s face becomes even more thunderous. Around his silver head, lightning flashes. When he speaks, the whole world seems to shake. 

“STEP FORWARD, WEAKLING. BEFORE I REACH DOWN AND SMOTHER YOU LIKE THE UNWANTED WHELP YOU ALWAYS WERE. COME SEE THE COST OF FAILURE.”

Sherlock steps forward. There is no other choice. He has always known that, since before he left his mother’s body. He looks down at the bed. He sees. 

But he doesn’t see, not at first. His mind can’t process. The image comes in fragments, before at last resolving into one viciously detailed picture.

John is dead. Sherlock knew it. He thought he knew what was coming. He didn’t—he didn’t.

John has been dismembered and disemboweled. Head chopped from his body, his arms and legs hacked away from his torso. Hands have been cut from wrists and feet from ankles, leaving the knobby white bones exposed. Six fingers and four toes have been severed, trailing feathery bits of flesh. His chest cavity is cracked, showing the ghostly ribcage and under that, a glimpse of spongy lung. His intestines have been pulled out of his belly. They lie on the sheets in long, glistening ribbons. Below that is a gaping red hole where his penis and testicles used to be. 

John isn’t dead. He’s massacred, violated, every bit of him butchered and reduced to parts. That’s what he is now, a pile of parts in a pool of jellied blood. It was done quickly, expertly, and with a very sharp blade. The only mercy (not a real mercy, there is none in this world) is that John would have bled out fast. He wouldn’t have known what was happening—

Sherlock sees the crescent-shaped wounds on John’s palms. Nail marks, from where he pressed down in agony. Sherlock forces himself to see the gaping red hole. It’s bled more than the rest. 

Between John’s lips is a protruding piece of flesh that Sherlock thought was a tongue. It’s not.

From behind him comes laughter, then a familiar voice. Calm as ever, to the point of boredom.

“I fed him his cock and balls. I’d like to say John died screaming, but his mouth was too full.”

Sherlock turns. The movement seems to take hours. Pivoting in the blinding light, which is not white now but red shot through with black. The colors of a migraine, his temples pound but it doesn’t hurt anymore. He doesn’t feel pain, or rage, or sorrow. He doesn’t feel. 

By the time he turns, the figure is escaping. All he sees is a flash of dark fur, a cloven hoof.

Something is put into his hand. His fingers close around its chill weight. He doesn’t need to look at it to know what he’s holding.

“Go.” His father sounds kinder. Almost proud, now that his son has remembered what he is. 

“Take it, boy. It’s not what you want, but it will serve.”

He runs. Amazing how fast he can go, not running from but chasing down. He pounds up the stairs to the fourth floor, racing down the narrow hall. The beast is just ahead of him, its hooves clicking on the wormy floorboards. It shoots through the last door, and he is right behind.

It shouldn’t be in the nursery. This is so wrong, seeing that twisted dark shape against the sweet, soothing pastels. It crouches in the corner, giggling.

“I don’t suppose you’d like to call it a tie?” 

Sherlock fires the pistol into that furry belly. The force of it sends the satyr flying back against the creamy wallpaper, hooves gone out from under it. It lies there holding its bleeding gut.

He kneels down, looking into that white face, those black eyes. He looks for a long time.

“No second shot?” the satyr pants. “I always knew you were an amateur.”

He doesn’t feel the jibe like he would have once. He gets to his feet. 

He turns and looks into the cot. There’s no baby there. He doesn’t know where the boy has gone. He’s not even sure which boy he means. Two of them slept here. Both black-haired and grey-eyed, both intelligent and ravenous. One was lost long ago, but the other? Perhaps Nero will stay sane, if he never comes back here.

He can’t be Nero’s father now. He can’t feel it.

The boy isn’t here. What sits on the mattress is something else. He opens the leather bag. Inside are many useful things, but there is only one he wants. He’s been looking for it such a long time.

He drops the pistol into the cot. Then he reaches into the bag and takes out the knife. He tests its weight. It’s much lighter than the pistol. The blade is small and elegantly curved; this is no butcher knife. Its purpose is more delicate. Much crueler.

He turns back, setting the bag on the floor. He holds his blade, smiling. Though the smile feels perfectly ordinary on his face, the satyr grows paler, its dark eyes wide.

“I’m sorry,” it whispers. “I was just trying to win. You understand.”

“I do. You lost.” He tests the blade with his thumb. Blood wells up, bright red. It doesn’t hurt.

“You—you loved our games, Sherlock.”

“That’s not my name.” 

He looks at the prone figure. The carcass is belly up, which is helpful. But will it struggle? That could ruin the grain of the hide. 

He kneels, reaching into the black bag and taking out a hypodermic. He jabs it into an ampoule, pulling the plunger back and filling the hypo. He presses the plunger to clear any bubbles which might cause a deadly embolism. That’s _not_ how this is going to end.

“What are you doing?” it says.

“Shh,” he says. He pinches the satyr’s arm. It tries to struggle, but it has lost too much blood. (Though it could last for days like this. It could even live. But it won’t.) He pushes the plunger on the hypo. The satyr flinches, which is rather silly given the wound it’s already suffering. It struggles and twitches, but not for long. Soon its body grows very still.

“Vecuronium,” he tells it. “A common paralytic, used in many surgeries. But don’t worry, it doesn’t block pain receptors. You’ll still be able to feel. You’ll feel everything.”

The beast pleads with its dark eyes. Sherlock pats its arm. “Perhaps you can help me choose. Common practice says that I remove the genitals first, but I don’t want to go there right away. That’s rather outré, don’t you think? Rather expected. Yes, I believe I’ll wait for that.”

He puts a hand on the satyr’s chest. It looks normal from the waist up, but he isn’t fooled. It isn’t human, no more than he himself is human. But they aren’t the same. That was the beast’s mistake, thinking they were. Under other circumstances, he might be sorry for it.

“We’ll start with the main incision first,” he says, tracing the pattern. “Throat to belly, then work our way inwards. I’m afraid we’ll have to slice out the bladder sooner rather than later. Can you imagine the smell if we don’t? I shudder to think.”

The beast can’t struggle. All it can do is breathe out a few strangled words.

“Pleeasse. I’m sso . . . ”

“Sorry, yes. The flute wasn’t worth this, was it? But cheer up: You’re going to make a perfectly lovely drum. I can’t wait to show my brothers.”

The beast can’t struggle. It can’t scream. It can only watch.

He slips the knife in. He feels flesh come away from the bone. 

He doesn’t feel satisfied by this. He doesn’t feel. Never again.


	49. Chapter 49

** Sherlock, 7 January 2013 (cont.) **

Sherlock sits straight up in bed. He doesn’t scream, but it’s a near thing. 

For a moment he doesn’t know where he is. All he sees is pre-dawn light coming through the window, and even that weak illumination is enough to make him leap out of bed in a panic. 

He forces himself to focus. He holds still, feeling the wormy floorboards under his feet. He puts his hand on his chest and feels the too-fast beat of his heart. He concentrates on his breathing—

Breathing. Who else is breathing?

Sherlock spins back towards the bed. He sees the small figure there, half-swathed in sheets and deeply asleep. _Asleep._ John is asleep. He is whole and faintly snoring. Safe.

Sherlock drops to his knees, his belly against the edge of the mattress, his elbows on the bed. He can’t move for a moment, and he certainly can’t stand up. All he can do is watch John sleep.

 _Just a dream,_ he tells himself. _Not real. Nobody here, neither gods nor monsters. He’s safe._

After a few minutes, Sherlock can make himself get to his feet. His balance is still shaky, but there’s no one to witness his weakness. John is a lightish sleeper under normal circumstances, but after the rigors of yesterday he won’t be easily woken. He could sleep until noon.

Sherlock experiences a sudden impulse to wake him up. He wants to see John’s eyes, he wants to hear his voice. But he won’t. It would be selfish, and anyway—he should let John sleep. It’s actually very important that John sleep, at least for a few more hours.

Sherlock doesn’t make himself fully face the resolution that’s formed in his brain. It’s been there since late last night, when he lay in bed not allowing himself to look at Alex DeLarge.

He scowls at the psychopath still grinning near the ceiling (John is right, the poster is too fucking ugly). Then he gathers up his clothes and heads to the bath. He uses the loo and takes a shower, scrubbing thoroughly but so fast that he barely allows himself to feel the heat of the water.

While he does this, he doesn’t think. He doesn’t need to. Everything has already fallen into place, even if a few details are fuzzy. They will come to him at the right time. In any case, he doesn’t want to prod his subconscious too much. He can’t risk stirring up any detritus from that last dream. Most of it has mercifully faded, except for a few images that are still sharp-edged and fever-bright. He won’t concentrate on them, however. That could have unfortunate—

Sherlock sees pink flesh protruding between dead lips. _His_ lips, John is parts, just parts, lying in a red-black jelly—

Sherlock dashes out of the shower, making it to the toilet in time to puke up whatever of last night’s shepherd’s pie remains in his system. It’s a surprising amount, and after it’s all up he feels better. He would love to blame the dream on too much pie, but he knows that’s not right. 

Holding on to the toilet tank for support, he gets to his feet, wiping his lips on the back of his hand. He flushes the toilet, then reaches into the shower and turns off the water. He brushes his teeth, using lots of toothpaste. As he brushes, he looks at himself in the mirror. His hair is wild, and there are deep circles under his eyes. The pupils of his eyes are dilated; his skin is greyish and drawn tight over his cheekbones. He looks like he’s been on a week-long coke bender. How much did he sleep last night? Three hours? Four? Too many hours. Too much time to dream.

He rinses out his mouth and turns on the water. He goes back down the hall, turning left instead of right. He goes into his old bedroom. Not even pausing for the customary nod to Uncle Evie, he begins rummaging through his bags for clothes.

He eschews the sharp blue suit he wore yesterday. Instead, he chooses pale grey trousers and a white shirt. Rather than bespoke patent leather shoes, he slips on scuffed black loafers not worth 20 quid. From the bottom of the big bag, he unrolls a mock-suede navy blue bomber jacket from Marks and Spencer. Going by the style and price, it could easily belong to John. 

When the ensemble is all put together, he’ll be dressed like a thousand working-class men in London. Add a change in posture and gait, perhaps a trucker cap, and you wouldn’t be able to pick Sherlock out of a line-up. He doesn’t bother wondering why he brought such clothes with him to Chapel Street. He’s simply glad he did, though yesterday he couldn’t have known—

Maybe he did know. He’s known since he saw Irene’s bloodied corpse. He just didn’t allow himself to consciously realize, because the neediest part of him wanted this time. He wanted John, and that part of him can’t regret having him. The rest of Sherlock regrets everything.

He shouldn’t have come back to London. This fortnight was an unforgivable indulgence. He should have had Danica take the baby to Mycroft, and then Sherlock could have gone his own way. He never should have called for help; Sherlock could have burned down that villa all by himself. Before his adversary knew what had happened, Sherlock would have been on his trail.

Moriarty killed Irene. Sherlock knew this all along, he just wouldn’t let himself know. He was so tired, and he missed London so badly. He missed John. Whining on the phone to Mycroft was the easy way out. Sherlock will never forgive himself for taking it, just as he will never forgive himself for going to Budva in the first place.

If he had left Irene alone, she would be alive this moment. Perhaps Moriarty already knew she was alive, or perhaps it was the acquisition of the Stradivarius that made him aware. It doesn’t matter, because Moriarty would never have bothered with Irene if Sherlock hadn’t been there. 

Weakness and more weakness, in June and in December. Sherlock should have spent the last six months tracking the monster down, not playing house. He should’ve known that if he could fake his own death, Moriarty could too. 

He did know. He always knew, but he was so tired last summer. Tired of loving John without hope, tired of dueling Moriarty without respite. Easier to let Moriarty win. Easier to die. 

He was cowardly and deceptive. Mortally stupid. As often happens, he didn’t pay the price for his mistakes. Irene did, and did he learn anything from that? No. He has started the exact same fatal chain of events in London.

Sherlock sits down on the bed, pressing fingers to his temples. He presses and breathes, trying not to see the pile of pieces on silk sheets. He presses hard, and finally the image fades away. He swallows against the queasiness in his stomach and gets back to work. He shoves a few random clothes into the smaller bag, since it would look odd to go to the airport without any luggage. 

John won’t die. Sherlock made his own fatal miscalculation, but he won’t make it twice. He’s going to find Moriarty before Moriarty can find him. They’ll finish the contest once and for all.

Sherlock has no plans to flay anyone alive, though if a creature ever deserved that, it’s James Moriarty. For Sherlock’s purposes, a shot to the head will do just as well. (Two shots, actually, to be professional.) After that’s done, he can come home. He’ll have earned a respite then.

If he doesn’t come back, if an evil star prevails and Moriarty wins, well. Sherlock does trust Mycroft to do the necessary mopping up. With Nero to take care of, John won’t dare go on a suicide mission. He’ll even have the money to fight Mycroft for custody, if it comes to it. Sherlock just hopes his instincts are right, and John will _want_ to fight.

Sherlock grabs the hair brush out of the bag. He manages to plaster down the wildest of his curls. Then he stares at himself in the mirror, forcing himself to smile. He smiles and smiles, until he approximates something that looks normal. While he doesn’t plan to acquire a gun just yet, he doesn’t want to raise any hackles at Gatwick. Airport security has grown more aware of the odd and ominous in the last decade, and at present Sherlock fits both categories. Even so slight a delay as a pat-down could derail his plans.

He has to get out of London, and soon. He’s not as worried about John as he is about Mycroft. He can’t see Mycroft before he leaves. Sherlock’s not sure how good his game face is right now: Good enough to fool airport security, perhaps, but one wrong twitch in front of his brother could be his undoing. More devious schemers than he is have sealed their doom by underestimating Mycroft Holmes’ instincts. Siger’s may have been sharper, but _only_ Siger’s.

Sherlock hears a soft noise behind him and spins around. For a moment, he and the small figure in the doorway exchange wide-eyed gazes.

Finally, Sherlock looks away. He can never win their staring contests. “What do you want? Hasn’t Mrs. Thompson fed you?”

Faust comes sauntering into the room, jumping on the bed with his usual insouciance.

 _She has. A rather superior grade of kibble, you should ask her what sort it is. The little Russian maid has been buying my food at_ Aldi, _were you aware? She has the discrimination of a serf! If I couldn’t hunt for myself, I’d starve to death._ The great silver cat swishes his tail scornfully.

Sherlock sighs. “When I get back, I’ll see about it.”

If _you get back. What on earth do you think you’re doing?_

“What I must. How can you not understand?”

_I do. You intend to go against an adversary whose full influence is still unknown. You are going to do this in a foreign country where your grasp of the language is slight, your contacts few, and your knowledge of the target’s whereabouts non-existent. You plan to perform this ridiculously impossible feat all on your own. Correct?_

“Yes. That’s correct.”

Faust’s ears tilt back in bewilderment. _I thought you were intelligent, for a human. I see now that I was wrong. An irrational ape, just like the rest of them._

“I’ll have to endure your bad opinion.” Sherlock drops the brush in the smaller of his two bags. He zips up the bag and his bomber jacket. 

_Can you endure John’s?_

Sherlock stops, his hand on the jacket zipper. “John will understand. In time.”

_You’re not as intelligent as I thought you were. But you’re not so stupid as that._

“What do you know about relationships? You’re a bloody eunuch!”

Faust draws himself up. _I understand them very well. The little queen will come around in time._

“Bess wants to tear your throat out and eat it with her kibble.”

 _A spirited woman! I don’t know when I’ve had such a good scrap, and she’s not half my size. I haven’t shown her my true mettle—how could I, when the only other adversary is her wretched brother?_ There’s _a eunuch. But my chance will come; I can be patient. She’ll adore me yet._

His eyes fix on Sherlock. _Patience, boy. It’s the key to both loving and killing. If you want to win, you have to wait._

When Sherlock shakes his head: _At least bring John. He’s a good hunter, I can smell it on him._

“Too good a hunter. He was going to kill himself! You call _me_ irrational! John stays, I go. There’s an end of it. I’m sorry if you don’t approve, but when I return you’ll see—”

He stops, as Faust sticks a leg in the air and begins licking his anus. 

“Right,” Sherlock sighs. “Cat. A brain the size of half a lemon, I remember now.” 

He shoulders his bag, grabs his phone, and goes out to the hall. Though he knows he shouldn’t, he walks across to Sherrinford’s old room for a last time.

Very quietly, he opens the door and steps inside. For 60 seconds—he times it on his watch—he allows himself the indulgence of looking at his sleeping husband. (They’ll make it official when he returns—he _will_ return.) John is rumpled, snoring, red marks on his face from where he had it pressed into the pillowcase. He isn’t handsome in the early morning sun. But he is Sherlock’s. 

Sherlock wants desperately to touch him, but he can’t trust John’s fatigue so far. Also, he doesn’t deserve to touch him again. He hasn’t earned it yet.

He would like to see Nero. But if Danica is awake and starts asking inconvenient questions—no. Also, the sight of his son, the knowledge that this could be the last time he ever sees him, might make Sherlock hesitate in his purpose. 

No more hesitation. No more weakness. 

He leaves the room without looking back. 

Sherlock departs Chapel Street via the back stairs, accessible by a dwarfish alcove at the end of the third floor hall. A hundred years ago and more, the stairs were used by housemaids and the like. For as long as Sherlock can remember, only the Holmes children have used them. As he quietly makes his way down the flights of narrow stairs, he reads five generations of childish graffiti. One notable exchange is in the turn to the second landing:

**_Heard melodies are sweet_ **  
**_but those unheard are sweeter_ **

**_Ev. Hlms 2/14/01_ **

Right below it, in bold and slashing letters:

**_Guess Keats never heard of a Walkman_ **

**_F. Holmes 12/20/84_ **

Then, in a neater but oddly similar hand:

**_You bloody philistine Sherrinford_ **

And:

**_Fuck off Mikey boy and if you dont return my Cure tapes Im confiscating all yr tit mags_ **

**_I don’t have your Cure tapes wanker you traded them to Bijan for cannabis_**

There’s more after that, but it’s in French and shockingly obscene. What makes the exchange funnier, and sadder, is what’s to the left. These words are carved with a blade, deep enough that though someone came along later and scribbled through them in marker, they’re still legible:

**_Sherry and Mikey bros. and best mates forever! 12/12/79_ **

Impossible to know who did the carving and who did the marking-through: It’s difficult to parse knife slashes and Sharpie scrawls. At this late date, it doesn’t matter. Sherry and Mikey haven’t been friends for a long time, and won’t ever be again.

Sherlock leaves his siblings to their eternal hostility, and escapes through the basement exit.  


* * *

  
He sits on one of the stiff blue chairs at the departure gate, trying to ignore the sounds and smells of the fellow travelers all around him. One particularly spoilt child has been whining for 20 solid minutes. The whines are in Mandarin, and Sherlock can make out just enough to be irritated—something about wanting something from the duty-free store. Chocolate? Cigarettes? Sherlock doesn’t know, though he’d happy to shove a giant Toblerone and a carton of Marlboros down its throat if that would shut it up. It doesn’t help that the child’s mother, who has done nothing to stop the whining, is wearing enough Shalimar to drop a pigeon at 20 paces. The reek of vanilla and bergamot is mixing with the stench of the Starbucks a few gates down and giving him a headache. (He had a sandwich from Pret A Manger, but he didn’t enjoy it.)

Overall, though, he has to admit that the plan is going well. After a quick stop at a bolthole for cash, cards, and the one passport he has left in reserve, Sherlock managed to catch an early train out to the airport. This identity isn’t very good—why did he think Stanley Sigerson was a clever name? Stanley he must be, however, until he gets off the plane in Singapore. He isn’t worried about establishing better credentials after that. Nowhere does forgery like the Far East.

The Sigerson identity has held up just fine, both at the ticket counter and the security checks. An overworked mother of three (diabetic, loves her Yorkie more than her children) barely glanced at his duffel bag. Now he just has to sit here until the flight starts boarding. He has time to kill, and he’s doing so by staring at his phone. He’s had it off for hours, but he’s willing to risk turning it on for the time it’s going to take to send two texts. Then it’s going into a bin several gates away.

Someone sits down nearby, jostling him a little. Sherlock keeps staring at the screen, not bothering to scan his new companion. As long as it’s not another whining little emperor . . .

The first text is easy. **Unwilling to wait for Gabriel. Will contact when deed is done.**

Mycroft will be furious, and sure to act in suppressive fashion. Let him find Sherlock first.

The second text takes longer, though he’s been rehearsing it since he left Chapel Street.

 **I know I’ve surprised you. But I had good reason. Please wait for me.**

Sherlock is about to hit SEND when he stops, pushing the back arrow. He adds one sentence, though he almost has to force his fingers to type it.

 **I love you.**

He hits SEND forcefully before he can second-guess himself.

“That’s nice. I mean, if you’re going to run out on someone without so much as a goodbye, the least you can do is text ‘I love you.’”

Sherlock looks up, glaring. But his outrage is instantly eclipsed by the sinking in his gut, as he looks into a pair of cold brown eyes. They are set in a blandly ordinary face which, if it weren’t totally expressionless, might be cute. That depends on whether you find freckles appealing. 

“You’re supposed to be in Singapore,” he says.

“You’re supposed to be at Chapel Street,” Gabriel replies.

Sherlock jerks up, flexing to run, but he’s stopped by something hard pressing into his back. 

“Taser,” Michael says in his ear. “Don’t make me use it.”

“Let’s not have a scene,” Gabriel says, rising. “You’ve been in the news enough this week.”

“You have no right to take me. I haven’t done anything wrong.”

“Besides traveling under a false passport? Oh, and the gun in your duffel bag.”

“There’s no gun in my duffel bag!”

“There will be if you don’t cooperate,” Gabriel says. “March.”

“And _smile,_ Sherlock,” Michael says. “Anybody would think you were being kidnapped.”

Sherlock marches, but he refuses to smile. He maintains a dignified silence as they make their way to short-stay parking, but inside he’s furious. It doesn’t help that late-morning sun, shining through the huge curved skylights that stretch over the North Terminal, is making his headache worse. That Taser is jabbing right into a kidney. His mouth tastes of overripe avocado from the cheap fast-food sandwich, and his ass is still sore from everything John did to him last night. 

He doesn’t want to think about John. It was one thing to imagine his (almost) husband’s reaction when Sherlock was on his way to Singapore to save the day. But to be caught before he even left the airport, ignominiously marched back to Chapel Street like a runaway teenager—

How could he have been found out so quickly? On a Monday morning his brother should have been at the office, buried in the usual piles of paperwork. John should have just been waking up. By the time Sherlock’s absence was noted and the alerts sounded, he should have been far away.

He should have flown out of Edinburgh. He considered it, but he thought it would be easier for Mycroft to pull him off a train than a plane. Who betrayed him? That’s what he can’t figure out.

If he were with anybody else, Sherlock would make a last-ditch break for it. He has seen Gabriel and Michael at work, however, and while he doesn’t fear being dissolved in a vat of hydrofluoric acid, he knows they might do something else equally disgusting and efficient.

He’s hustled into the back of a familiar black SUV. Michael gets up front to drive while Gabriel sits beside Sherlock. He has a Taser of his own. 

“Are you going to be good?” he asks Sherlock. “I have cuffs, but I’d rather not use them.”

“That won’t be necessary.”

“Promise?” Gabriel says, wrinkling his freckled nose. His tone is almost teasing. 

Sherlock’s tongue does a complete circuit around his teeth before he answers. “Promise.”

“Good lad.”

 _Irish,_ Sherlock thinks. _Cork? Not with those vowels. Dublin. Catholic, lapsed. He glances at Gabriel’s hands. Father a butcher._

“No wonder you’re so good at chopping up bodies,” he says. “Your father taught you. I hope you didn’t inherit his alcoholism. It would be a real hazard in your profession.”

Gabriel blinks. His hands clench briefly, then unclench. “What?”

“Don’t take the bait,” Michael says. “You know how he is with the parlor tricks.”

Sherlock turns on him. “I know who your great-grandfather is. Who he was, rather. You have his chin.” He pauses. “You will _definitely_ have to worry about alcoholism.”

Michael rolls his eyes, but Gabriel scowls. “Shut up.”

“Did your father beat you because he was drunk, or because you were gay?”

Gabriel flushes scarlet. “You—” he actually makes half a lunge before controlling himself. 

“Now you’ve done it,” Michael says. “Don’t expect me to save you, Sherlock. My granddad didn’t believe in appeasement, and neither do I.” 

Gabriel stares at Sherlock. He’s much cuter with a bit of color in his face. Under different circumstances, Sherlock might have fancied him. Now he just grins at him. 

“You should have let me go to Singapore,” he says. “It’s where you should be. Did Mycroft recall you for incompetency?”

 _“Where I should be,”_ Gabriel says quietly. 

Then, much louder: “Do you know where I should be? At home, in my bed, with the husband I haven’t seen for six weeks. Why haven’t I seen him? Because I’ve been slogging through every shithole in the Western Hemisphere, when I wasn’t making pitstops in Budva to chop up fucking corpses. I’ve been killing myself to find a man whose idea of fun would be making a giant kebab of you, your lover, _and_ your adorable bastard moppet. 

“I’m not incompetent. I did not lose James Moriarty. Unlike you, I know exactly where he is. Unlike you, I can follow instructions instead of haring off like bloody Harry Potter on a grand adventure. Which is the reason I’m _still_ not with my husband. Here I am, busy again, looking for my employer’s idiot brother, a man who left to his own devices would have been dead in a gutter with a needle in his arm years ago. So don’t tell me where I should be, Sherlock. One more dig from you, and I’ll Taser you so hard that you’ll be walking up the steps of 19 Chapel Street with drool on your chin and piss in your pants. Do you understand me, clever dick?”

“Yes,” Sherlock says in a smaller voice. 

After a long, awkward pause: “I don’t suppose you’d tell me where Moriarty—”

“No. I was going to tell you, but now you can sit there and wallow in your own ignorance. Fuck! I hate posh cunts.”

“Softly, softly,” Michael mutters.

“No offense,” Gabriel says to him. He jerks his chin at the speedometer. “Put the pedal down, Granny. You heard Mycroft’s orders.”

“You do need to get laid.”

“I’m trying, mate. Not as hard as you are, but—”

 _“Polizi mi jajce,”_ Michael says. Gabriel smirks. 

Does everyone know Serbian but Sherlock? 

He sighs. “I liked you two better without personalities.”

“I’d certainly like you better without one,” Gabriel says. _“Feisigh do thoin fein, tú bastún dúr.”_

Sherlock knows what this means (even posh cunts can learn Gaelic), and what Gabriel just told him to do is not only rude but anatomically impossible. He feigns cluelessness, hoping this might give him an advantage. But Michael says something else in Serbian, and Gabriel answers. The rest of the conversation takes place in that tongue, and Sherlock has to be content with ignorance.

Traffic on the A23 is light, and even the perpetual crowd of cars in Westminster isn’t enough to slow them down. Too soon, the SUV is stopping in front of 19 Chapel Street, sliding in behind Mycroft’s Bentley. (Since Trevenen Holmes bought his first Daimler in 1898, the Holmeses have parked right in front of Number 19. Once, years ago, a neighbor kept nicking Siger’s preferred spot. Maybe it was the success of his band which made the man overconfident, or maybe it was the pills. But even someone as perpetually stoned as Brian Epstein should have known better.)

Sherlock freezes for a moment after the vehicle comes to a stop. He never enjoys coming to Chapel Street, but this morning he positively dreads it, as he hasn’t since returning from rehab. Not Promises, the wheatgrass-soaked haven in Malibu. _Mycroft’s rehab,_ that scary pastel village in Wales. It’s possibly the only place in the world Sherlock less wants to be right now.

Michael comes around to Sherlock’s door, pulling it open. “Come on. They’re waiting.”

“If you’re scared, we can have Mycroft come out and walk you in,” Gabriel says.

Sherlock looks down his nose at the scruffy little Irishman. He gets out, his head held high. He walks up the checkered steps, the angels right behind him. Before they can crowd him too much, he turns around.

“Thank you for the ride,” he says flatly. He looks at Michael. “You should probably know that two weeks ago, Danica was in love with a woman. Though I doubt this revelation bothers you; in fact, if you’re like most straight men, her bisexuality will make you even more keen.” 

His gaze falls on Gabriel. “If your husband is who I think he is—and he _is_ —ask him where he was spending his nights while you were away.” As Gabriel stares at him: “Perhaps I’m mistaken. You two could have an understanding, as some couples do. But considering the ferocity of your temper, I doubt it. I hope you can keep your temper when you see the color of the hairs on his collar. Samael has red hair, doesn’t she? Bisexuals: You have to watch them every moment.”

He walks through the glossy black front door feeling something akin to triumph. He’s confident enough, in fact, to stride across the vestibule proclaiming: 

“Mycroft, you interfering bureaucrat, how dare you—”

Sherlock stops. The duffel bag thumps to the floor, dropped by fingers which are suddenly too numb to keep hold. In the periphery of his vision, he sees his stone-faced brother. But Mycroft barely registers. John is also there, scowling in a corner with his arms crossed over his chest.

Even his much-aggrieved spouse can’t keep Sherlock’s attention for more than a split-second. His eyes, his brain, his numb fingers and roiling gut, all of them are fixated on another figure, one comfortably seated on the settee that’s positioned against the left-hand wall of the lounge. 

Sherlock feels the world tilt under his feet. He wonders if he’s dreaming. If instead of making a heroic escape attempt, he’s spent all these hours stuck in the same old nightmare.

“Ciao,” Moriarty says.


	50. Chapter 50

** Sherlock, 7 January 2013 **

For ten seconds, there is dead silence. Or perhaps there isn’t, but Sherlock is still mired in that underwater feeling common to nightmares, where all sound is deadened. Then the world seems to snap, everything speeding up faster and faster. He’s sprinting across the lounge, right towards that hateful white face—

Until his arm is grabbed, and he’s jerked back so fast that he almost goes ass over teakettle. But the same iron grip steadies him.

“That’s right, Mycroft,” a hearty voice says. “Keep little brother in check, will you? It’s not as if you ain’t used to the task.”

Sherlock tears his eyes away from his quarry with painful effort. He focuses on the man sitting immediately to Moriarty’s left. It’s Jools Siviter, nattily dressed and in fine fettle. He’s sipping Earl Grey from Grandmother Edith's best china.

“What—” Sherlock’s voice breaks and he stops, clenching his hands. “What is this?”

“A visit, for lack of a better term,” Jools says. “Not quite a social call, and definitely not official business. This is most definitely _off the record,_ Sherlock.”

Sherlock looks at Mycroft. “He brought Moriarty here. To this house.”

In his brother’s grey eyes, Sherlock sees a spark of the rage he feels blazing in his own chest. But Mycroft’s face remains cool. He says unconcernedly, “This is the most discreet place.”

“Discreet? Why is there any need for discretion? Lock him up and throw away the key!”

“Funny, that’s exactly what John said,” Jools puts in. “I suppose you two really are soulmates. It’s rather sweet. Or it will be, if you can keep your tempers. Talk about indiscreet! I mean, the whole world knew you were buggering him blind, but there was no need to shout it in the street.”

“Jools,” Mycroft says. “I think it would be better if we keep things focused, don’t you?”

“Of course,” Jools says, more soberly. “It is getting on towards lunchtime, isn’t it?” He glances at the Patek Philippe on his wrist. Then he looks at Sherlock. “Have a seat. Let’s hash this out.” 

He has the temerity to nod him towards a chair. Sherlock crosses his arms. “I prefer to stand.”

“I prefer that you sit like a civilized man. In this way you may not emulate John Watson. He’s not directly involved in this business. You are. _Sit.”_

His tone doesn’t change in pitch, but that last word was razor-edged. Sherlock lifts his chin stubbornly, but Mycroft’s voice comes, as calm as water. He lets go of Sherlock’s bicep.

“Sherlock, if you please,” he says. “This won’t take long.”

Sherlock sits, though not in the chair that Jools indicated. Instead he takes the settee opposite. His brother sits beside him. Mycroft pours him a cup of tea, which does smell bracing after the morning’s exertions. But Sherlock’s throat is too tight to swallow anything.

He makes himself look at Moriarty again. He doesn’t want to, because when he does the edges of his vision go black and red. But neither does he want to let him out of his sight.

The safe room in the basement would hold him. That door is twelve inches of reinforced steel, set into an underground chamber made of solid concrete block. Video monitors in the ceiling, laser sensors just outside. It would hold him very well, until Sherlock could—

“Jooools, Sherlock is _looking_ at me.” Moriarty speaks in sing-song, like a whiny little boy. 

“Sherlock! Your father raised you with better manners than that.” Jools raises both eyebrows. “On the other hand, James, you have been very naughty.”

“I know,” Moriarty sighs. “I just get so bored.”

He and Jools exchange smirks. Sherlock realizes with a queer pang that their suits were made by the same tailors. Not Gieves & Hawkes, where Mycroft gets his suits made. Huntsman, a few doors down on Savile Row. You can tell by the one-button jackets with neat waists and high armholes. Flattering and more contemporary than the martial look of a classic Gieves & Hawkes. 

Sherlock has a sudden image of Jools and Moriarty going shopping together, asking opinions on socks and cufflinks, holding up ties for the other to admire, and he has an unholy desire to laugh. He doesn’t, though. He’s not sure whether it would be giggles that emerge, or vomit.

“He works for you,” Sherlock says. His voice sounds far away, but perhaps it’s just the sleep deprivation. “Moriarty has worked for you for years.”

“Off and on,” Jools says equably. “I had high hopes for him when he was first starting out, but Jamie-boy is rather willful. He’s good at getting into scrapes, though I admit he’s also good at getting out of them. But now here he is, ready to be taken back into the fold! I’m chuffed.”

“He’s an arch-criminal,” Sherlock says. “A terrorist. Those explosions in London three years ago, the Tower of London robbery—”

“As I said, very willful. Though technically he was acquitted of the latter.”

 _“He poisoned children.”_

“If I recall correctly, wasn’t it _your_ face that made little Claudette Bruhl scream her head off?”

“Jools,” Mycroft says, because Sherlock is currently incapable of speech: “This isn’t helpful.”

“You’re right,” Jools sighs. “But your little brother makes it too easy. He’s so terribly earnest about everything. So—moral.” Jools' lip curls. “I don’t know where he gets that. Your father was a practical man.” He cracks his knuckles in a businesslike fashion. “All right! Enough of this circle jerk, let’s get down to the meat of the matter. You boys are hereby ordered to stop all the nonsense. No more pulling each other’s pigtails. Do I make myself clear?”

“Nonsense?” Sherlock rasps. “Is that what you call attempting to hound me to my death?”

“But he didn’t, did he? You both pulled a series of fast ones that day. I don’t care if you play head games with each other from here to eternity, but you must stop pulling the good people of London into the fray. Their poor wee brains just can’t take it. Play chess, meet for racquetball, whatever. Get out the ruler and have the dick-measuring contest that’s really what this whole business amounts to. But no more attacks in the press. _No_ more violence, fake or real.” 

Sherlock’s eyes are wide with disbelief. “You really think Moriarty is going to agree to that?”

“My dear boy, he’s already agreed.” Jools gives his companion a smug look. “Haven’t you?” 

Moriarty nods, giving the whole room a winning smile. “Of course.”

“See? James is a practical man. Well, except for this odd obsession with acting, but he’ll grow out of that. How about it, Sherlock? Can you be practical for once? For me?” Jools winks.

“What is he offering you?” Sherlock says. “What can Moriarty possibly have that you want?”

“Stupid question,” Jools says. “What a man in my position always wants: _Treasure.”_ His eyes flare at the word. “Intelligence, beyond the NSA’s wildest dreams of snooping. After his years in the trenches, James has more dirt than the Golden Dustman.”

Sherlock looks at Jools. He’s never observed the man overly closely before now. He’s never had the interest. He takes in that sparse but impeccably cut hair, those cold blue eyes and thin, oddly sensual lips. The wattle under Jools’ neck, the wedding ring on his finger (though he is 12 years a widower), the silk square in his pocket and the mirror-like gloss on his shoes. Sherlock has seen elegantly dressed sociopaths before. Moriarty’s tailoring, though not always Savile Row, has been consistently impeccable. Jools’ monstrousness is not what strikes him now.

What strikes him is that while his own father may have been a monster, he was not the same as Jools Siviter. Whatever horrors Siger Holmes visited upon the world, it was in the service of a greater order. He detested chaos. Siger would no more have backed Moriarty than he would have abandoned his daughter to prostitution. 

Sherlock jumps a little at a wet touch on his hand. He looks down at Faust, who looks back with fierce but sympathetic eyes. His cat jumps up on the arm of the settee, huge silver head looming. Sherlock strokes Faust’s back, pondering.

Jools Siviter isn’t Zeus, though he probably thinks of himself that way. He’s Cronus, the god who ate his children: a greedy, unsubtle, short-sighted manipulator. In the original myth, the god’s cruelty resulted in his dethronement and captivity. But this isn’t Ancient Greece. Will Jools eat Moriarty, or will it be the other way ‘round? 

Sherlock sighs, and scritches Faust under his white chin. 

“Sorry to interrupt your snog with the moggie, but if you would be so kind?” 

Jools is sounding impatient, but Sherlock turns to his other adversary. 

“I want to talk to you,” he says to Moriarty. “Alone.”

Jools rolls his eyes. “If this is some sort of ham-fisted assassination attempt—”

“Oh _please,”_ Sherlock says, and he doesn’t have to fake the outrage. “It’s broad daylight, and this is my family home. But Moriarty should speak for himself. If you’ll let him off the leash.”

Moriarty keeps smirking. “I’m not a dog, darling. I don’t roll over and beg.” 

“Wait,” Sherlock whispers.

“Sherlock—” Mycroft and Jools both begin, but he cuts them off with a wave of his hand. 

“Ten minutes of conversation.” He looks at Mycroft. “I assume you’ve turned off the cameras for the duration?”

“Of course I made him turn off the cameras!” Jools says. “But I don’t like this. Not at all.”

“I don’t care. I’m not agreeing to anything unless we speak privately.” Sherlock’s gaze falls on Moriarty. “After all, I’m not the one asking for a truce.”

Moriarty’s lips lower a millimeter. “A _time-out._ But if you want to keep playing—”

“None of that!” Jools snaps. He jerks his head at Moriarty. “Talk to him. Quickly. The Savoy won’t hold our table, and I could murder a pork chop.” 

He looks at Michael, who is standing in the vestibule. (Gabriel has elected to stay outside, and Sherlock isn’t surprised.) “Go with them,” Jools says. “If Sherlock tries anything, shoot him.”

Michael looks at Mycroft, and Jools goes pale with anger. “Am I, or am I not, the man who signs your paychecks? And while I realize you don’t need the bloody dosh, if you don’t want to spend the next two years checking oil line irregularities in Shetland, _move your ass.”_

Michael steps forward, his face blank. Mycroft is equally expressionless, though if he holds that teacup any tighter, Grandmother Edith’s best Crown Staffordshire isn’t likely to survive.

“It’s fine,” Sherlock says. “Just a chat. I promise.”

“Softly, softly,” Mycroft says, not looking at him.

“Odd expression. Second time I’ve heard it today.” Sherlock frowns at Moriarty. “Come on.”

He leads a small parade out of the lounge: himself, then Moriarty, then Michael. Faust brings up the rear, his tail held high in the air. 

On the way, Sherlock tries to catch John’s gaze. He succeeds, but John’s eyes are so shuttered that Mycroft would envy his control. Sherlock wants to say something, but this is neither the time nor the place. They’ll have plenty of time to debrief when this mad charade is over.

Sherlock takes Moriarty to the conservatory. Part of him hates despoiling his boyhood refuge in this way, but it’s either that or the kitchen. Mrs. Thompson’s domain must not be invaded.

Faust jumps up on the iron dining table. Moriarty takes a seat on one of the wicker sofas. He beckons at the cat, who gives him a very direct stare and then turns away, licking his paw. 

Sherlock turns to Michael. “If you would step into the back garden? You can see us quite well through the glass.”

Michael looks dubious. “That isn’t what Siviter had in mind.”

“Close enough. You’re five steps away should I prove untrustworthy.” 

After their dealings this morning, Sherlock can’t let his tone be pleading. But perhaps his gaze is, for Michael shrugs. “Okay. But don’t test me. You’ve used up all your slack for one day.” 

He steps out. Sherlock sits down on the other wicker sofa. Moriarty is casually cool, the ankle of one leg propped up on the opposite knee. Sherlock sees his elegant purple socks (cashmere, £95 at Turnbull & Asser), and experiences a rare moment of sartorial inferiority. If he’d known today was going to work out this way, he would have worn the blue Prada.

“Here we are,” Moriarty says. “Alone together at last.”

Sherlock says nothing. He’s too busy observing. Moriarty, as always, sounds like an evil Andy Warhol, all flat inflection and camp phrasing. But he’s genuinely excited to be here. You don’t have to be very observant to see the sparkle in those black eyes.

“I’ve often wondered what heaven made you,” Moriarty says, gaze roving over the conservatory. “The address is to die for, of course. But the décor leaves much to be desired. Shabby chic is all very well, but this is just—” he runs a finger down the sofa’s frayed arm, “—shabby.”

“You killed Irene Adler,” Sherlock says. 

“I fucked Irene,” Moriarty replies. “She wasn’t bad. I’d give her 9 out of 10 for technique, but she was obviously faking the orgasms. If I’d been paying 3000 quid for a night, I might have felt cheated. She did me gratis, though.” He shows his white teeth to Sherlock. “Let me guess: She did you gratis, too. Generous woman. Shame about the decapitation.”

“She wasn’t decapitated. As you’re well aware.”

“Really? You mean she faked her death again?” Moriarty says. “Well, fool me twice . . . ”

“She didn’t fool you. You found out she was living in Budva with me. Then you murdered her.” Sherlock stops, pressing his lips together. Why is he telling Moriarty what they both know? 

“So she’s the baby’s mum? I’d have bet on you and John hiring a surrogate.” Moriarty shakes his head. “Tsk tsk, Sherlock. You should always use a condom with a working girl.” He lowers his voice to a worried whisper. “Don’t tell me you’re back on the coke. I’d be so disappointed.”

Sherlock stares at Moriarty. He looks past the insults, which are immaterial, and focuses on the man’s tone and body language. Insane as it may seem, Moriarty appears sincere. As much as a sociopath can be, anyway. Could that mean—

No. “Enough of these obfuscations. You killed her.”

Moriarty sighs. “Must you always believe the worst of me? Of course, I _would_ have chopped Irene’s head off, if it needed to happen. But I wouldn’t do it for no reason. I didn’t like her: Those fake cum-faces of hers got on my nerves. But she was doing such a good job of making herself miserable! Why would I interfere? No, you’ll have to look for some other person who didn’t like her. I can send you a list, though I’m not sure Gmail allows attachments that big.” 

“Irene’s death wasn’t about her,” Sherlock says. “It was about me.”

“You never gave a damn about Irene. Oh, maybe there’s a tiny little spark of regret now, since she pushed the new Holmes heir out of her hairless snatch. But if she and John Watson had been drowning in a river, you wouldn’t have hesitated. In fact, you’d have probably shoved her head underwater in a frantic hurry to save your woobie.” 

Moriarty ponders for a moment, lips pushing out and in. “We should compare dates. I did use a condom, but you never know. I’d hate to see you spend your time and money raising my cuckoo. I don’t see myself as Daddy, but who knows? It could be fun. I’m glad the baby’s a boy, though. With a girl you’d have to worry about the whore gene, which wouldn’t be fun at all.”

Moriarty turns his sleek head, making kissy faces at Faust, who is still watching from the table. “No fun at all. Would it, Mr. Fluffypants?” When Faust just glares: “What’s wrong with your cat? Why does he hate me?”

“You called him Mister Fluffypants,” Sherlock says. 

Moriarty rolls his eyes, continuing to beckon at Faust while Sherlock considers.

Moriarty probably did fuck Irene. But it occurs to Sherlock, not for the first time, how utterly queer the man is. So is Sherrinford, but Sherlock’s brother is anything but a misogynist. While Moriarty—as much as he hates humanity in general, he reserves particular contempt for women. 

Also, that’s three times he’s brought up Irene’s profession in five minutes.

“Yes,” Sherlock says. “Considering your mother, any girl child you had with Irene would have no chance at all, would she?”

Moriarty makes an infinitesimal flinch that may be the only true emotion Sherlock has ever seen from him. Except for the man’s infrequent bursts of psychotic rage.

“My mother was a nurse,” Moriarty says, a little too distinctly. “And what about your mum? Strange how she drops from the record after your father divorced her. That _is_ all he did to her, isn’t it? Violet fucked around a lot, and Siger was a proud man. Or so Jools says.”

 _She had one lover,_ Sherlock thinks. _My mother wasn’t a whore. Not like yours._

He doesn’t say anything. Sherlock is tired and his head aches. Of all the things he thought he’d do today, trading barbs with James Moriarty over their disastrous upbringings wasn’t anywhere near the top of the list. He’s not even sure why he wanted this interview. It’s just another game, one he’s already sick of playing.

“Look at us. We’re so bitchy!” Moriarty exclaims. “We should be doing this over a tray of Cosmos. You be Carrie, I’ll be Samantha. Does that mean Mycroft is Miranda? I can see that.” 

Sherlock rubs his temples. “If you didn’t kill Irene, what is all this? Why are you here?”

“To quote Lindsay Lohan in that hilarious Lifetime movie, I’m so booored,” Moriarty says. “Like you, I want to be back in London. I want fans again. _You_ have fans, thanks to John and that cutie-pie Neville St. Clair. Why can’t I?” 

“You’re telling me you don’t resent those blog posts? John in particular was quite eloquent.”

“Except for the comma errors,” Moriarty says. “Oh well! You can’t expect a chav from the Alton Estate to consistently follow Hart’s Rules.”

“I think he got his point across. Now the whole world knows what you really are.”

“You know what they say, there’s no such thing as bad publicity,” Moriarty replies.

He blows Faust more kisses. To Sherlock’s amazement, Faust jumps off the table, trots across the conservatory, and leaps onto the arm of Moriarty’s sofa. He stares across the cushions that separate them. His face has an unfamiliar expression on it: Uncertainty.

“That’s it, puss-puss,” Moriarty says, holding out a hand for the cat to sniff. Which Faust does, carefully. Moriarty grins. “See? I’m so fucking charming, Sherlock. You know, it wasn’t just the death threats that made the jury acquit me.”

As Moriarty is talking, Faust climbs slowly off the sofa arm and walks across the empty cushion. He sits next to Moriarty, gazing up at him. His gaze is as fierce as ever. But it’s also fascinated. 

Sherlock squashes a pang of irritation. _Brain half the size of a lemon. Remember._

Moriarty crosses his legs excitedly. “No, the bad press doesn’t bother me at all! John probably did me a favor by keeping my name in front of the public all these months. You see, I’m going to restart my acting career. Jools doesn’t think much of that, but whatever. I’d make a lovely Doctor. Matt Smith’s head is so _square.”_

Sherlock is not convinced. “And give up being a criminal mastermind. Just like that.”

“Mastermind, shmastermind. You know as well as I do that most criminals are total morons. I got over mastering them years ago. I’d rather act. The entertainment business is full of shitty people too, but it’s a better quality of shit.”

He shrugs. “I may consult for Jools. What a con he’s got going! He’s done more horrible things than I ever will, and in a few years he’ll have a knighthood. If acting doesn’t work out, maybe I will go back to MI-6. Do you think Mycroft would make me one of his angels? But all the good code names are taken, aren’t they?” His nose wrinkles. “I’d probably get stuck with Uriel. Ew.”

“What about our vendetta?” 

“No offense, but you’re _so_ dull now. That YouTube video was a fun five minutes, but you and John are just dying to plunge headlong into domesticity, aren’t you?” Moriarty’s eyes flick over Sherlock’s trousers and bomber jacket. “You’re already dressing like somebody’s dear old dad. Pretty soon you’ll be growing a pot belly and wearing socks with sandals.” 

He nods thoughtfully. “We’ve had a lot of fun, haven’t we? At least I did. Setting Jeff Hope loose on London, rigging those bombs, suborning that jury, poisoning the Bruhl brats—I don’t have to list it all, I suppose. You know how well I’ve played the game. I almost won, didn’t I? Though I must admit, Reichenbach wasn’t the ending I originally had in mind. Oh, it was fun to turn everybody in the world against you. Not very intimate though, was it? Even with our tête-à-tête on the roof. Once upon a time, my goal was to shag you and then murder you. But now, no thanks. I’d rather not be where John Watson has been. I’m beginning to wonder if his crap taste in clothes isn’t sexually transmitted.”

He stretches his elegantly clad limbs. He softly kiss-kisses at Faust. The cat crouches down and bends his big grey head to be petted.

 _Traitor,_ Sherlock thinks. He _is_ angry, though he knows it’s not fair. Why shouldn’t a cat be seduced by Moriarty? So many people have been. All the people, perhaps—at one point even John was half-convinced by the man’s schemes. That salty dog Jools Siviter has been taken in. Besides Sherlock, only Mycroft has never been fooled. 

Their father wouldn’t have been, either. Whatever treasure was being offered in exchange for clemency, Siger would have spurned it. The only special favor he’d have given Moriarty was two bullets in the back of the head.

Sherlock has kept his countenance for the entire interview. But perhaps something shows on his face, for Moriarty looks more amused than ever. His dark eyes are keen, and there is color in his usually pale cheeks. God knows where he’s been all this time, but right now he looks like a man who’s just gotten back from a wonderful vacation. Rested, invigorated— vindicated.

Maybe Moriarty didn’t kill Irene. It could have been a bad deduction on John’s part. Possibly, Sherlock’s nightmare and his flight thereafter were the result of shepherd’s pie and paranoia. 

But even if that’s true, it makes no difference. There are so many reasons that Moriarty deserves punishment. All the bodies in his wake, all the misery he’s spread. If he never commits another crime, he’s already earned his death ten times over. 

With Moriarty’s powerful new protector, who will lift a hand against him? Sherlock would—he _could,_ and sleep very well at night. But he has his own situation to consider. He remembers, as he didn’t this morning, that he has other responsibilities. Who will dare to punish Moriarty now? How long before all of London is fooled by him again?

As if to illustrate the point, Faust turns over on his back. He presents his belly to be petted. 

Moriarty smiles his charming smile. “You see?” he says, as he buries his knuckles in Faust’s tempting fluff. “Everything is just rosy. I don’t suppose you and I will have many dealings from now on. But we must keep in touch. When Moffat casts me as Twelve, I’ll send you an autog— _AGGHHHHAOHFUCKINGHELL!!!!”_

The scream echoes off the glass panes, loud enough to be heard several rooms away. For a split-second Sherlock can’t understand what’s just happened. 

Then he sees. He can feel his grin, so big that it almost splits his face in two.

_Oh you crafty bastard—_

Faust is a past master at the belly trap. Sherlock has fallen for it dozens of times. Even Mycroft and Sherrinford have been taken in. But in the end, those were just games. It wasn’t a real trap.

But now—

Faust just buried his long fangs into the soft webbing between Moriarty’s thumb and forefinger. He struck fast and deep, and then, once the deed was done, took off for the sanctuary of the iron dining table. He has climbed under it faster than a big cat should be able to move. All you can see now is a pair of green eyes blazing in the shadows.

Michael bursts in, demanding: “What the hell is this?” 

He instantly grabs for Sherlock, who backs away, holding up both hands.

“Not me,” he says. “It was Faust.” 

“That fucking piece of filth,” Moriarty gasps. Blood is trickling from his palm to his wrist. It soaks into his shirt cuff and is threatening the fine wool of his bespoke suit. He pulls out his pocket square, sacrificing the silk to staunch the bleeding. But he doesn’t look happy about it. 

No, right now he’s not amused at all. Sherlock, however, is still grinning.

“You’d better have that seen to,” he says. “Cat bites are full of bacteria. A Pasteurella infection is serious. Almost as bad as botulism, and we both know how bad _that_ can be.”

“Shut up,” Michael says, as Jools, Mycroft, John, and Gabriel come running into the room.

“What did he do?” Jools says, eyes narrowed at Sherlock. 

“Not _me,”_ Sherlock says. “It was the cat.”

Jools takes in Moriarty’s mangled hand, then charges forward. He jerks some chairs away from the dining table and reaches for Faust.

And backs away quickly, as Faust puffs up to three times his normal gargantuan size. He lets out an unholy, lingering scream. Even Sherlock feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

Faust’s neck-ruff flares, his eyes burn yellow-green. He looks like small, silver, furious lion.

“What the hell is that thing?” Jools says.

“Shoot it,” Moriarty says. He looks at Gabriel, standing nearby. “Did you hear me? _Shoot it.”_

“You don’t give me orders,” Gabriel says. “Yesterday I was hunting you down.”

“No one is shooting anything,” Mycroft says. “This was an unfortunate accident. Mr. Moriarty, you shouldn’t have been teasing the poor creature.”

 _“Poor creature?! He_ came over to _me!”_ Moriarty shrieks, holding up his silk-wrapped hand. (Blood is seeping through the pocket square. Such a pity: That’s £50 he won’t be getting back.) 

Moriarty turns his dark gaze on Sherlock. “You made him do it. This is all you.”

“You don’t know much about cats, do you?” Sherlock says.

“Gentlemen, please,” Mycroft says. “Gabriel, Michael, take Mr. Moriarty to A&E.”

“I can’t,” Michael says. “I have that appointment.”

“What appointment?” Jools demands.

“He’s escorting Danica and Nero for their daily walk,” Mycroft says. 

“Oh for the love of—”

“Gabriel, pick up Raphael,” Mycroft interposes smoothly. “He does have medical training.”

Something flickers over Gabriel’s features. He opens his mouth. Then he closes it, nodding.

“Why can’t Watson look at my hand?” Moriarty whines.

“Yeah, I’ll do that,” John says. “If I can amputate.”

“Take him to the bloody A&E,” Jools snaps at Gabriel. “Call Animal Control on the way. They’ll deal with the damn cat.”

“Faust has his shots,” Sherlock says. “Though I may get him inoculated again. You don’t know what _he’s_ carrying.” He jerks his head at Moriarty, who glowers back.

“I mean, Animal Control will put that thing _out of its misery,”_ Jools says.

“Oh, why don’t you go—” but Sherlock is cut off.

“Animal Control won’t do that,” Mycroft says. “Not for a first offense. We’ll keep the cat upstairs from now on. He’s usually a gentle creature, I don’t know what happened.”

While Sherlock is digesting this rather magnificent lie, Mycroft begins herding everyone back into the hall. Except for Gabriel, who takes the still-whinging Moriarty out the glass door to the garden, towards the path that leads around the house to the street.

Sherlock wouldn’t admit it to a soul, but he feels relieved once Moriarty is gone. He also feels bereft, like Faust after a rat he’s stalking escapes through a crack in the wall.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft says as he exits. “Take Faust upstairs. Then rejoin us in the lounge.”

Once the room is quiet, Sherlock waits a moment. 

Slowly, Faust comes out from under the table. He and Sherlock exchange a long look. 

Faust looks away. At first Sherlock can’t understand—the cat never lets him win a staring contest. Then he follows Faust’s line of sight, and shakes his head.

“I was about to thank you. But this wasn’t about me at all, was it?”

_I’m afraid not._

They both look at the evergreen hedge that’s planted in the garden right outside the far end of the conservatory. Visible through the wavy glass panes is a tiny white face, peering from under one spiky branch. Even at this distance, you can see the fire in those golden eyes. 

They stare at Faust. Then, slowly, they close. Then open, and close again.

Sherlock knows a lot about cats. So he knows what that particular feline movement means.

“That’s _it?_ You bite one psychopath, and suddenly she’s blowing you kisses?!”

 _I told you so._

Faust arches his back in a satisfied way. _You may take me upstairs. My work here is done._

Sighing, Sherlock obeys. He can feel the burn of Bess’ gaze between his shoulder blades, as he hefts Faust’s bulk over his shoulder and heads for the hallway.


	51. Chapter 51

** Sherlock, 7 January 2013 (cont.) **

It doesn’t take him long to settle Faust in the blue bedroom. The cat seems exhausted after his exertions. As soon as Sherlock puts him on the bed, Faust curls right up on the quilt and goes to sleep. Sherlock gives him a fond pat on the head before exiting back down the third-floor hall. 

As he passes the door to Sherrinford’s old room, he hears movement within. John must have withdrawn from the chaos downstairs. For a moment Sherlock considers knocking on the door and getting their confrontation over with, but Mycroft’s instructions were clear. Sherlock has rebelled enough for today, and anyway: He’s not sure he’s ready to talk to John yet.

When he returns to the lounge, Jools and Mycroft are standing in the vestibule. Jools has his stick and looks ready to depart, a development that will disappoint nobody. But he’s not gone yet, and as Sherlock enters Jools favors him with a withering stare. 

_“Just a chat. I promise,”_ he mimics nastily.

“It wasn’t me,” Sherlock says, a bit weary. “It was the—”

“If it were up to me, I’d make that thing into a spare set of earmuffs,” Jools hisses. “But it isn’t, so we’ll draw a veil. But I won’t forget, understand? If you try any more funny business—” 

“He won’t,” Mycroft says. 

“I can speak for myself,” Sherlock says to him, before turning to Jools. “I’m not the one who instigated any of this. For the last three years, Moriarty has been the aggressor at every turn. If there’s anyone you should be watching, it’s him.”

“Oh, I will be. For the foreseeable future, he will be under constant surveillance. As will you. Your rival knows what’s at stake, so I don’t anticipate any trouble from him. I don’t know where that self-destructive streak of yours came from, but I suggest you keep it in check. If you go near James Moriarty again, it had better be with prior clearance and both your hands where we can see them. If you instigate _anything,_ overtly or covertly, I will—”

“He won’t,” Mycroft repeats. “Jools, I’ve given you my word. You know what that’s worth.” 

“I do,” Jools says. “If I were only dealing with you, I wouldn’t worry. But your brother is seriously bent, and I don’t just mean his liking for cock. I’m glad your father didn’t live to see his youngest come to this. Maybe the DNA test was wrong: Sherlock’s sire _was_ that damned Irishman. It would explain so much.”

Sherlock is not floored by any display of nastiness by Jools, and waits patiently for this latest flood of vitriol to end. Oddly, Mycroft is more affected. His face is so still for a moment, you couldn’t tell the difference between it and the picture of Grandfather Edmund a few feet away.

Something stirs in his eyes, darker than the shadows in an ancient photograph. Then he clears his gaze with a blink. He nods. “As I said, the matter is sorted. Aren’t you due at the Savoy?” 

“Blast! That’s right.” Jools is suddenly all insouciance again. “You know, I was much afeared when I heard Gordon Ramsay was taking the place over, but his breaded pork cutlet with capers and brown butter is scrumptious. You should come along, Mycroft. I detest eating alone, and my luncheon companion was detained.” He shoots Sherlock one last glare.

“That’s kind of you, but I’m overwhelmed with work—”

“Never mind,” Jools says. “I think I’ve found a better option.”

Danica has just come from upstairs, closely followed by Michael. She’s resplendent in a red down jacket and painted-on jeans, Nero tucked securely in her arms. Michael has been tasked with wrestling the stroller, bulky even when folded, down the stairs.

She pauses at the bottom of the staircase, clearly nonplussed by their visitor. She makes a single, aborted movement backwards. Then she lifts her pointed little chin, flips a blonde braid over one shoulder, and holds her ground. 

In three quick strides, Jools has crossed the distance and is looming over her. 

“Hello, petal. Did you get the flowers?”

“Yes, I get,” she says. “Thank you. They are very nice.”

“I should think so! Denobriums are lovely. Though those were hothouse grown, I’m afraid. You haven’t seen orchids until you have seen them growing wild in Thailand. Cascades of blossoms, like all the trees are wearing lace cravats. Breathtaking.”

“I don’t know. I never go to Thailand.”

“Well. Something will have to be done about that. Scenery is the only reason to go there, unless your tastes run to heroin binges and ten-year-old prostitutes.”

“Ah,” Danica says. “Maybe I find pictures online.”

“Sod the pictures! You must go. Late March and April is the best time for orchid gazing.”

Danica bounces Nero on her hip. “As you see, I am very busy.”

Jools gives her a gentle, condescending smile. “Sweetie darling. A girl like you can find better things to do with her time than changing dirty nappies.”

“I like to work. I do good job.”

“I’m sure there are many jobs you can do,” Jools says. “Ones with far greater rewards.”

He says something in Serbian, so fast that Sherlock can’t separate the individual words. 

Danica’s cheeks go red. Sherlock has never seen her blush before. More striking, however, is the reaction of the man standing behind her. 

He has been his usual stoic self for this entire exchange, but whatever Jools said to Danica made Michael lose his countenance. For ten seconds, before he regains control, you can see who he is.

Partly it’s that square, pugnacious jaw. Also the steely eyes, ones capable of staring down hostile parliaments and encroaching Germans. The Orpen portrait at the National Gallery captures the famous scowl very well, but today there’s a live version at Chapel Street. They don’t look too much alike, but in this moment Michael’s resemblance to his great-grandfather is pronounced. 

Then, like the man who trained him, Michael blinks and battens down his feelings. 

His voice is perfectly detached. “Danica,” he says. “Let’s go. The baby needs air.” 

“Well,” Jools says silkily. “Aren’t you solicitous?”

“It’s my job,” Michael says. 

“Uh-huh. Let’s make sure things stay professional, shall we? Remember how bleak Shetland can be this time of year.”

 _“Sir,”_ Michael says, though the inflection isn’t precisely respectful.

But Jools has already dismissed him. He pats Nero on the head.

“You should come to lunch with me, Dani. The maître d’ won’t mind the tot. He’ll find Nero some pasta or something to nosh on. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, lambkin?”

Jools tickles Nero under his round chin, and the baby giggles. “Handsome mite! Your Daddies sprang for the expensive egg, didn’t they?” He sighs. “I don’t know why the troglodytes online insist on thinking Julia is Sherlock’s baby mama. Any child of mine would have better sense. Anyway, do I look like a grandfather to you?” 

Clever girl that she is, Danica ignores this mine field. “I eat already,” she says. “Thank you. Nero needs air, or I must rock him all night.”

“Lucky Nero,” Jools says. “Ah well, next time then.” He gives Danica a meaningful look. “There will be one, petal. You can’t be busy forever.” 

Danica says nothing to this, while Jools tucks Nero’s scarf a bit tighter. “Take good care of him. I wouldn’t want Nero catching cold.” 

“Yes,” she says. “Come, Miko.” 

She tugs her companion’s sleeve and, after one more glance at Jools, Michael complies. 

Jools makes no effort to disguise his lingering look at Danica’s rear as she hustles out the door. “Scrumptious,” he says. “Better than Ramsay’s pork cutlet. Juicier, I’m sure.”

“Jools,” Mycroft says. “I wish you wouldn’t try to corrupt the help. It puts us all in such an awkward position. Especially that poor girl.”

“You don’t know Slavic females. They’ve never heard of an awkward position. I assure you, Miss Danica likes me just fine.”

“I doubt that,” Sherlock says.

“What do you know about it?” Jools snaps. “When was the last time you saw a woman naked? Corpses and trannies don’t count.”

For ten pence, Sherlock would tell Jools exactly which woman he last saw naked. But nobody offers him ten pence, so he says nothing. Jools smirks.

“Lads, listen and learn. Danica isn’t repulsed. Nor is she intimidated, though she does dewy and blushing quite fetchingly well. Danica is _negotiating._ As soon as I indicate that her price will be met, she’ll fall into my hands like so much ripe and blushing fruit. You’d better keep Massey’s Agency on speed dial, because by springtime you’ll be needing a new nanny.”

Jools tilts his head, considering. “I’ve never had a Montenegrin mistress. Can’t be too different from a Russian, can it? Hopefully less temperamental. I’ve still got a scar from where Malvina threw a vase at my head. Could I help it if that Valentino made her bum look big? She did ask.” 

He blinks, and seems to remember where he is. “What were we talking about? Right. Sherlock, don’t be an ass. That sums it up. Tell your husband to keep his opinions to himself, and that goes double for that troublemaking little tart Neville St. Clair. I don’t want to see any more blog posts from either of them on James Moriarty. St. Clair can go back to whinging about gay marriage or whatever his latest hobbyhorse is. John can write up old cases, post recipes, I don’t care.”

“I assume you’ve given similar orders to Moriarty?”

“Sherlock. James doesn’t care about you. All he cares about right now is being the next one in the bloody TARDIS, for some daft reason.” Jools yawns. “Now if you’ll excuse me, my blood sugar just nosedived. I’m going to call Julia and tell her to meet me at the Savoy Grill. She can appreciate a pork cutlet, if none of you lot can.”

He gives them a sardonic little wave and exits, whistling a Wagner aria.

As soon as the door closes behind him, Mycroft’s shoulders slump a bit.

“Is there any shepherd’s pie left?” he says, not sounding very hopeful.

“No.”

“I thought not. Today is Mrs. Thompson’s marketing day, so I suppose we’ll have to forage.”

He heads for the kitchen stairs. Sherlock follows him, but not because he has any appetite. The sandwich from Pret A Manger isn’t sitting very well, and the events of the last hour have further shrunk his stomach into an oily ball. 

Sherlock leans on the kitchen counter, watching with cool amusement as Mycroft takes several foil-wrapped dishes from the refrigerator and then puts them back, looking increasingly peevish. A treacle tart is able to pass muster, but two Cornish pasties and a roast beef are rejected. 

“You love Mrs. Thompson’s roast beef,” Sherlock says.

“Not after the third day. She can feed the rest to the cats—” Mycroft makes an exclamation. “Hello! What’s this?” He takes out a deep glass bowl with a plastic lid. He lifts the lid and sniffs. “Mrs. Thompson didn’t make this.”

“That’s Danica’s dish,” Sherlock says, peering over his shoulder. _“Čorbast pasulj,_ a sort of bean stew with spare ribs and smoked sausage. Not unlike cassoulet.”

Mycroft looks cautiously optimistic. “It smells all right.”

“It tastes better. Danica is an excellent cook.”

Mycroft takes Sherlock at his word and sets the bowl on the counter. He gets out two bowls and two glasses, as well as plates for the treacle tart. 

“I’ve already eaten,” Sherlock says.

“A fast-food sandwich isn’t eating.”

Sherlock doesn’t even bother to ask how Mycroft knew that. Of course his brother has cameras at the airports. He just goes and sits at the kitchen table while Mycroft bustles about, heating the stew in the microwave and pouring glasses of water. Playing Mummy, as he so often does.

When everything is on the table, Sherlock pokes indifferently at his bowl while Mycroft digs in. His brother takes one big bite, then closes his eyes briefly. 

“Stunning. She’s balanced the carrot and garlic perfectly with the bay leaf and bacon. I don’t usually like the texture of white beans, but these are succulent. As for the sausage—I hope she’ll tell Mrs. Thompson where she found it. Our butcher has gone sadly downhill in the past year.” Mycroft takes another bite, looking cheerful for the first time today. 

“Her cuisine is Danica’s most attractive quality.” Sherlock pauses. “Well. And her breasts.”

“Yes, those are nice.” Mycroft looks thoughtful. “Yet she is unattached.”

“Not if Jools has anything to say about it.”

“That’s not an attachment. More of a business arrangement.”

“Perhaps Michael will make her a better offer.”

“Not if his mother has anything to say about _that.”_ Mycroft dips a bit of bread into the hot stew, chewing pensively. “From her perspective, Jools would be a more logical choice. He takes very good care of his mistresses, even once he tires of them. Malvina was financially independent by the time he sent her back to Saint Petersburg.”

“You’re assuming that money is a motivation for Danica. I don’t believe it is.”

“Something motivates her. Jools will work it out; he always does.”

“Yes, he’s clever. The way he motivated you to free Moriarty from that detainment cell 15 months ago? Very clever.”

Mycroft stops mid-chew. He swallows and takes a sip of water. “There was no manipulation. I didn’t think it was a good idea, but Jools overruled me. He doesn’t do that often.”

“You had no idea that Moriarty was an MI-6 asset?” 

“Not until today. Jools doesn’t tell me everything.” 

Mycroft meets Sherlock’s gaze without hesitation. Not that this means anything. Mycroft is a good liar, if not quite as good as Ford—unlike his older brother, Mycroft has one tell he’s never been able to shake. But his hand is steady, just holding the soup spoon instead of strangling it. 

“So why did you agree?”

“He is my boss, Sherlock.”

“You’ve had other bosses. How many politicians have you ruined because they displeased you in some way or another? Off the top of my head I could name half a dozen. Perhaps you’re not Francis Urquhart, but if you wanted to topple the whole house of cards you could. Yet I’ve seen you swallow insults from Jools that if any other man dared utter, we’d be fishing his eel-nibbled corpse out of the Thames. Why? What does he have on you?”

“Nothing. What could Jools have on me? My profile couldn’t be any more low-key, to the point that if I were exposed as an agent of the intelligence service, nobody would care. Unlike you and Ford, I’ve never craved the spotlight.” 

“Then why do you tolerate Jools? I can’t believe it’s out of personal affection. He has all the congeniality of a crocodile.”

“Sherlock, I am 42 years old. I’ve been working in the intelligence community for 20 years. I don’t make decisions based on such petty emotions. I didn’t question Jools about his reasons for freeing Moriarty because I thought I already knew. Jools came of age during the Cold War. He doesn’t believe in wasted assets: Even the most dangerous adversary can be mined for treasure.” 

“Didn’t you tell him there’s no treasure there? Only psychosis?”

“I said something to that effect, yes. But Jools waved me off. I thought time would prove me right. I didn’t know about Jools’ history with Moriarty. He _doesn’t_ tell me everything, and he can be devilishly tricky when he wants to be.” 

Mycroft says this in his usual diffident way. Though his next words are probably meant to be contrite, the tone doesn’t change. He sounds like he’s discussing the state of the roads. 

“I would never have told Moriarty all those personal details about you, if I’d known how things would work out. I’m sorry about it. I suppose I should have apologized before, but it’s been an extremely busy two weeks.” 

A minute or two of silence, as Mycroft finishes the rest of the stew and starts on the treacle tart. He offers some to Sherlock, who shakes his head. Mrs. Thompson’s tarts are lovely and lemony, but at present he would just as soon eat sand.

“You were going to kill him,” Sherlock says.

Mycroft continues eating dessert like Sherlock hasn’t said anything. Not surprising: While Sherlock knows that his brother has killed, both with his own hand and by executive order, Mycroft never speaks of it. That would be a breach of protocol and bad taste.

Sherlock understands this. He doesn’t know why he has to pursue the subject. Perhaps because he would like to see his brother breach protocol. Just once. 

“That’s why you told Moriarty all of those personal details about me. He was never supposed to leave the detention cell alive. A hypo of potassium chloride right in the neck, stop his heart and then bury him discreetly. Or maybe dissolve him in hydrofluoric acid. Even more discreet.”

“More messy, though,” Mycroft says. His plate is empty except for crumbs. He looks longingly at the tart dish, which holds one more tempting slice. It’s the most emotion he has shown during the entire conversation.

Sherlock presses his fingers to his temples, which have begun a slow, pulsing throb. He should go upstairs and rest. He should eat some of the bloody tart. But he won’t.

“How it must have stung when Jools made you turn the key. Nobody ever escapes you. Then to see your own words turned against you, Moriarty spilling family secrets all over the red tops. To spend months believing I’d been driven to my death, and that you helped push me off the ledge. How did you swallow it? All the tarts in Christendom shouldn’t have made that pill go down.”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft says slowly. “Stop.”

He can’t. If he doesn’t speak, his head is going to explode. Everything he has deliberately not been feeling since he awoke this morning is rushing back in. All the fear and horror. The rage.

“Jools brought Moriarty here. Does MI-6 have no more safe houses in London? Of course it does! The visit was a deliberate insult. Jools wanted to show us who has the real power here. He can bring that monster into our family home, and we have to serve them tea. Everything his protégé has done—to you, to me, to the people of London, and we’re supposed to smile and let Moriarty try for a BAFTA. Like Jools, I’m glad our father is dead. I can’t imagine how he’d react if he saw what his golden boy has sunk to. How do you rationalize working for a man so morally bankrupt, he’d nurture a viper for the sake of intel? How can you bow and scrape and give him your word of honor? You can’t want to shag his daughter that badly—”

Sherlock cuts off as he’s jerked out of his seat and slammed into the bricks of the fireplace. He is still shocked at how fast his brother can move, even with the awareness of what Mycroft really is. Twenty years a spy, subtle and ruthless. Mortally cruel when he needs to be. 

Mycroft’s fingers tighten on Sherlock’s throat. But that iron grip doesn’t press down enough to cut off his breathing. In the five years since Sherlock moved from Chapel Street, his brother’s control has grown even more astonishing. But Mycroft does lean in, so close they are nose to nose. His pupils are so dilated with anger that his gaze is blacker than Moriarty’s. 

“Listen to me, boy,” he says softly. “Shut your filthy whining mouth and listen. I don’t justify myself to you. Because you _are_ a boy. Thirty-three years old, and yet you still behave like this is one of Ford’s fairy stories. This is the real world, Sherlock. And it’s complicated, and messy, and tragic. The decisions I make are hard decisions, they have true consequences for myself and millions of other people. My work matters as yours never has. A consulting detective! You may as well be six and calling yourself a pirate. Couldn’t be a chemist, oh no, though your work was brilliant and could have had real benefits for your country. Too boring for you, too _adult._

“No wonder you tried to run away to Singapore—it’s how a child would react. Just as you ran six months ago, and it’s clear now that even dying hasn’t made you grow up. It’s my fault that you’re the way you are. I’ve spoiled and protected you, because you were young and weak and vulnerable. But no more. I’m done indulging you. 

“So you _will_ tolerate the existence of James Moriarty. You will forget you ever knew him. You will bend all your energies towards raising your child and salvaging your relationship with John Watson. You will beg John to forgive you for running, and you’d better hope he does. Because if you think anyone else is going to put up with your selfishness and stupidity, you’re mistaken.”

Mycroft lets him go with a shove. He spins on his heel, heading for the stairs. Then he stops, turning. “I’m going to my study to work. If you plan to seduce John into forgiving you, do it now. You two kept me up all night. Faugh! It’s like living with a pair of randy chimpanzees.” 

He turns back to the stairs. Then he stops again. He picks up the tart dish and takes it with him.

Sherlock stays still, slumped against the crumbly old bricks until Mycroft’s footsteps die away.

A fat ginger face peers around the kitchen island. Wide gold eyes stare fearfully at him. Then, seeing that it’s only Sherlock, Hal jumps up on the table and begins to eat Sherlock’s untouched stew. Mrs. Thompson would be after the cat with a broom if she knew, but Sherlock isn’t going to tell. After what just transpired with Mycroft, he may never talk again.

Sherlock watches Hal until he’s finished. Seeing the fat cat eat his fill is oddly soothing. 

Once Hal has licked the bowl clean and gone about his business, Sherlock heaves himself up. He takes a long draft of water, the only sustenance he can currently tolerate. Then, because there’s nothing else to do and the day is ruined anyway, he goes upstairs to see John.


	52. Chapter 52

** Sherlock, 7 January 2013 (cont.) **

Sherlock experiences a few heart-pounding moments when John is nowhere to be found. Ford’s room is empty, and Faust is the only snoring creature on Sherlock’s old bed. The loo is similarly deserted. Would John leave without telling anyone? Given their present notoriety, that would be extremely stup—

Grimacing, Sherlock sinks onto the stair landing. He has his phone out and has nearly finished a frantic, apologetic text when one other possibility occurs to him.

He gets up and goes back down the hall. He slowly opens the last door on the right. His heart gives a final, painful palpitation of relief as he sees John seated on the bed. Upon his knee is a large black album, the fraying around the spine signaling its age. 

John looks up at Sherlock’s approach. Though his expression isn’t exactly jolly, it’s not angry, either. Sherlock feels confident enough to come inside, closing the door behind him.

Mycroft’s former bedroom is a mirror-image of Sherrinford’s. The bed is on the right-hand wall instead of the left. The desk is to the right of the door and the bookcase is on the left, rather than the other way around. The bookcase is almost empty, as is the desk. Mycroft took most of his books and possessions downstairs when he moved to the master bedroom 15 years ago.

There are other differences. The quilt on the bed is brown plaid, not blue. The wallpaper is also brown, and empty of posters or anything else modern and vulgar. Hung on the walls are several old prints. The largest, which is hung over the bookshelf, shows a lovely lady with blue eyes and a silver fishtail. A big oyster shell studded with pearls is at her scaly knee. She sits on a rock by the sea, and looks out over the water with a pensive expression. Her hand holds a comb, which she uses to arrange her long, auburn tresses. It’s one of Waterhouse’s most appealing paintings.

“Bit girly, isn’t it?” John says. “I admit, I’ve never pictured Mycroft’s boyhood room before. But I wouldn’t have guessed mermaids.”

“Mycroft didn’t choose these pictures,” Sherlock says. “This was our Aunt Harriet’s room.”

“Where is Auntie Hettie now?”

“She’s been dead for 70 years.”

“If there’s one thing I admire, it’s your family’s ability to commit to an aesthetic,” John says. “Mycroft never complained about all the fishy ladies on his walls?”

“No. Never.” 

Sherlock lets his amusement show in his voice, and John, brow wrinkling, peers more closely at the pictures. His gaze lingers on one hung near the head of the bed, which depicts a young man kneeling on the edge of a pool lush with lily pads. Arising from the pool is a lovely, naked girl. She grips the boy’s arm, as if begging him to come into her watery bower. She’s not alone: Arranged among the lilies are six more winsome girls, all as naked and eager as their sister.

“Shit,” John says, eyes widening. His gaze roves over the room, taking in the bevies of naked nymphs, their curvaceous flesh depicted in glowing earth tones. “Fucking Mycroft! Even his teenage wank-off material was classy.”

“Not always. On Mycroft’s 14th birthday, Ford gave him a box of the most disgusting girl-on-girl porn he could find. He thought Mycroft would run screaming.”

“Did he?”

“Mycroft took the box, thanked Ford gravely, and didn’t leave his room for two weeks.”

John shifts uncomfortably on the bed, as if wondering if the quilt has been washed since then. “I can’t picture it. Imagination fails me, thank God. I can’t even see your brothers as young. All I see are two short blokes in expensive suits. And I _saw_ that picture of teenage Ford.”

“If it helps, I can’t see them either. Even when we were young, they seemed—old.” 

“While we’re on the subject of family history.” John pats the bed. “Come here. I was going to look at this album all by myself, but I’ll enjoy it more if I know everyone’s name.”

Sherlock hesitates. He keeps searching John’s face and body for evidence of anger, but finding none. That doesn’t necessarily mean John isn’t angry, though. He can be opaque when it suits him. If they’re going to have a screaming row, Sherlock would rather get it over with. 

“John,” he begins, “about this morning—”

“Hush. I want to look at the pictures.” 

“But—”

“Sherlock,” John says in his captain’s voice. “Sit.”

So he sits. It’s not as if Sherlock wants to be screamed at. If Captain John has decided that this is the appropriate response to desertion, so be it.

Sherlock looks down at the old album. It’s easily six inches thick, bound in black leather with creamy pages. A big gold clasp keeps the whole thing closed. It’s full to bursting with photos.

“There are more pictures in the attic,” Sherlock says. “Mycroft cherry-picked these years ago.”

“I’m surprised he had time, what with all the masturbation.” 

John opens the clasp and flips to the first page. The album begins with daguerreotypes, the faces faded from improper preservation. Ghostly images of Benwick Holmes and his fiancé, Adelaide Sherrinford. Then Benwick and Adelaide with Edmund, the only one of their six children to live to adulthood. There are several pictures of adult Edmund and his wife, Elizabeth Mycroft. 

By the time Edmund is a middle-aged man with two sons, the pictures have become salted-paper prints, easy to reproduce and resize. There’s even a smaller copy of the picture of Edmund which hangs in the lounge. 

Sherlock tries to turn past Edmund’s frowning visage quickly, but John puts a hand on the page.

“I noticed that bloke,” he says. “Mycroft takes after him.”

“I hope not.” Sherlock nods at the opposite page, which shows the coffin picture of Edmund. The corpse weighs 20 stone, easily. “He was capable of polishing off an entire calf’s head by himself. He was particularly fond of the brains.”

“Zombie Grandpa. Lovely.” 

John moves on, and Sherlock is glad. The pictures become formal tintypes, interspersed with snapshots taken by then state-of-the-art portable box cameras. The next picture to catch John’s interest is one of those. 

“Is that this house?” 

“Yes.”

The snapshot shows two youngish men standing outside 19 Chapel Street. One has his foot on the running board of a shiny automobile. The car is absurd, tall and awkward with giant spoked wheels. It looks like nothing so much as a carriage someone forgot to hook horses to. But even in the rather blurred photograph, the man with his hand on the bonnet looks smugly possessive.

“My Great-Grandfather Trevenen and his first Daimler,” Sherlock says. “The man with him is his brother Thomas. Not to be confused with my Grandfather Thomas, his namesake.”

“Great-Uncle Thomas looks rather like Ford.”

“According to family legend, he was even more handsome. But he didn’t pass on his good looks. Both of his sons died soon after birth. According to a less-told story, the babies were born with full-body rashes and facial malformation. That second birth also killed his wife.”

“Perhaps it was a mercy,” John says quietly. “All things considered.”

“Yes,” Sherlock says. “She never had to know that Thomas gave her and her children syphilis. He later died in an asylum.” 

“Sad. But it was nice of his brother to name a son after him.”

“Trevenen’s healthy son was born six weeks after Thomas’ son died. Both babies were called Thomas. Trevenen used the name out of spite. It doesn’t show in the picture, but the brothers hated each other.” 

“Jesus Christ.”

“Trevenen never admitted his motive, of course. My family often repeats names, sometimes even in close succession. Grandfather Thomas’ wife and daughter were both named Harriet.”

John digests this silently. He just nods in recognition at the pictures of Thomas II and poor Evie. He doesn’t speak until they reach the 1930’s. “Aunt Harriet was pretty. What did she die of?”

“Pneumonia. A real tragedy. She was a brilliant mathematician. She worked at Bletchley Park, breaking codes with Alan Turing and the like. Her father allowed it grudgingly; he wanted her to get married. He attributed her death to overwork, and never forgave himself or Harriet’s mother. But her work was vital to Ultra, the intelligence program which finally broke the German ciphers for good. Who knows how many lives she saved by sacrificing her own?” 

“That is impressive,” John says. “But does a Holmes die tragically in every generation?”

“Until this generation, yes. It’s why there’s such a dearth of cousins. The Holmeses are not particularly fertile, and prone to bad luck.”

“Not too unlucky, if they can survive,” John says, pointing to another picture. “Isn’t that Grandfather Thomas hunting with Winston Churchill?” When Sherlock nods, John’s face becomes admiring. “I always liked the old bulldog. You don’t see his kind of grit anymore.”

Sherlock considers that famous scowl. There’s a large copy of this photo in the study; Sherlock has seen it often. That faint-but-discernible resemblance nagged him for weeks, until everything finally clicked into place at Gatwick this morning. Michael certainly has the scowl down cold.

“I don’t know,” he says. “You might see it.” 

John flips faster. He’s not interested in the pictures of Ford and Mycroft as babies: “They still seem like they should be wearing suits and ties. Where are the ones of your mum?”

“In the basement. This is Mycroft’s album.” 

John frowns at this, but closely inspects the ones of Sherlock as an infant. “I don’t think we have to worry about a DNA test. Your son looks exactly like you.”

“Nero is handsomer than me.”

“He’s fatter than you and he smiles more. Otherwise, it’s a spitting image. You were a solemn little thing, even given how tasty all your nannies seemed to be. Siger had an eye for that, didn’t he? I think my favorite is the blonde— _holy fuck, is that Princess Di?”_

Sherlock peers at the photo. He’s no more than eight or nine months old, sitting solemnly on a blanket in the back garden. Hovering over him is a pretty, plump young woman in a pie-crust collar and sensible shoes. Her short, feathered hair glows in the afternoon sun. 

“I suppose it is. I’d forgotten.”

“One of the most famous women who ever lived changed your dirty nappies, and you _forgot?”_

“She wasn’t famous then,” Sherlock says patiently. “She was an unambitious earl’s daughter who picked up spare cash by nannying in the afternoons. My father gave her the sack, despite the obvious decorative qualities. Mrs. Thompson said she ate everything in the house.” 

John slaps the album closed. “Okay, I’m done. We’re not going to top that. Princess Di was your bloody nanny: I’ll never feel sorry for you again.” 

“It’s not as if I remember,” Sherlock says. “And I never asked you to feel sorry. _You_ were the one who grew up deprived.”

“You did, too.” John looks serious now. “The most privileged deprivation I’ve ever seen. Nev was right, wasn’t he? Emotionally healthy people have never lived in this house.”

“St. Clair is overdramatic, as usual. Most families have skeletons.”

“But your family’s skeletons show up in the history books, don’t they? All of these powerful people with horrific personal lives. No wonder you and your brothers have such trouble with emotional connections. It’s another family tradition, isn’t it?”

“Your own parents—”

“Had a good marriage. Dad didn’t fall to pieces until after Mum died. I also lived with my aunt and uncle for two years. The Canterburys may be the most boring couple in Berkshire, but they adore each other. I know what a healthy relationship looks like, Sherlock. I don’t think you do.” 

Sherlock feels a stab of fear at this. During the pleasant part of their chat, he had been trying to work out how to turn the conversation back to their nuptial plans. There is still time today: The registry office doesn’t close until four. But now he can’t say anything. He’s afraid of what John might say, given this morning’s events.

John’s fingers tap pensively on the album cover. He’s quiet for a minute or two, thinking. 

“I’m glad we came here,” he says. “I mean, I’m not glad about why we had to come, but it’s been helpful to see this place. I see it all now. Why you are the way you are.”

Sherlock flinches at the choice of phrasing. Though John doesn’t sound raw and accusing, as Mycroft did, the sentiment is the same. Of course they have to talk about what happened this morning. Did Sherlock really think John would be diverted with a few family anecdotes? 

Maybe John won’t want to marry him. He’ll definitely want to berate him. But at least Sherlock can head off the worst of the onslaught with an apology. He’s gotten rather good at those since he came back from Budva. 

“John. I must explain why—”

“No, you don’t,” he says. “You freaked over Moriarty killing Irene, didn’t you? I should have kept my mouth shut.” He pinches the bridge of his nose, sighing. “I wasn’t even that surprised. I think Mycroft was more gobsmacked by the news when I phoned.”

“You phoned him? How did you—”

“I woke up early. Faust jumped on my face. It couldn’t have been long after you left.”

 _Traitor._ Sherlock won’t say it aloud. He’s beginning to suspect his cat of unearthly powers.

“I am sor—”

“Leave it,” John says. “Honestly, Sherlock, right now I’m too knackered to hear it. I had an awful fucking morning—your brother gets mean when he’s worried, did you know that? Then I got to hear Jools Siviter call me a faggot about two dozen times, _and_ there was bonus Moriarty.”

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock says. “I know you don’t want to hear it, but I am. And Jools is a cock.”

“Uh-huh. How he fathered such a lovely girl, I haven’t the foggiest.” 

“Julia takes after her mother.”

“Good for her.” John grimaces. “Jools is really horrible. You’ve been telling me that for years, but getting cozy with Moriarty has to be a new low, even for him.”

“Sadly, I don’t think so.” Sherlock pauses. “Jools has drawn clear lines around his new protégé. We’re not to approach him. We’re not to mention Moriarty online. I know it’s hard to hear, but for the present we have to abide. Until we get a clear view of what’s really going on.”

“Oh, so you don’t think Moriarty is giving up being a supervillain to audition for _Doctor Who?”_ John says flatly. “Yeah, I heard all about his master plan before you got back from the airport. If he’s not lying, he’s delusional. Maybe he could play The Master, but—”

“I don’t know what Moriarty is doing. I used to think I could predict, but he shifts so quickly that I must admit I’m flummoxed. He doesn’t think like a regular person.”

“Neither do you.”

“Not like him. There’s so little method in his madness. For all I know, he’s genuinely bored with antisocial behavior. Or he could be plotting something even more diabolical than Reichenbach. _I don’t know.”_ Sherlock runs hands through his hair in frustration. “I’m not even sure he killed Irene. It could just as easily have been Jools.”

“Why would Jools kill Irene?”

Sherlock blinks. “He’s only an example.”

John gets up, putting the photo album back on the bookshelf. He leans against the shelf, crossing his arms. “I will try to follow orders. Though these rather suck.” 

“It’s just as well that you forgot to pack the Browning yesterday. Instinct might have taken over before you could stop yourself.”

“What a tragedy that would have been,” John says, rolling his eyes. “But at least the bad guys didn’t have it all their own way. It made my day to see that lunatic dance around, shrieking like a little bitch. Faust is my new hero. Maybe he can bite Jools next time.”

“That won’t happen. Jools is a dog person,” Sherlock says. “Though Mycroft is quite fond of cats, I don’t think he would save Faust again. Jools _is_ his boss. For the same reason, I implore you to keep the Browning in your bedside table. At least for the time being.”

John sighs. “I suppose it wouldn’t do to piss off Mycroft. I’m not his favorite person as it is.”

“Mycroft doesn’t dislike you. In fact, he told me to come up here and speak with you. I was going to anyway, but he was adamant. He said to beg your forgiveness.”

“Really? That’s hard to believe.”

“Two days ago he suggested that I propose.”

“Let me guess. To cut down on paperwork?”

“Only in part. He said I should use sexual wiles if you needed additional encouragement. He made a similar suggestion an hour ago. I think he’s worried about having me on his hands for the rest of my life. It’s insulting, really: I don’t need a keeper.”

 _“You’re_ insulted? What about me?” John’s brows have drawn together. 

“What do you mean?”

“Mycroft really doesn’t think much of me, if he believes you can seduce me into submission.”

“I don’t think he was implying—”

“Fuck imply, he outright said it.” John shakes his head. He’s smiling, but it’s a rueful one. “You Holmes boys amaze me. You’re so smart, you’re stupid. Regular people aren’t cavemen running about sticking it in anything that moves. We don’t all think with our dicks. Unlike you.”

_“What?”_

“Oh, please. All three of you are giant pervs.” John gestures around. “Look at this place! Tits as far as the eye can see. I’m afraid of opening the closet now, for fear of being crushed under a deluge of disgusting lesbo-porn. I’ve seen Ford’s films. Nothing but sex, sex, sex, even when it doesn’t belong there. He put _three_ hardcore fuck scenes into _Heart of Darkness,_ and that book is the unsexiest story ever told. And you! I know what you get up to when the mood takes you.”

Sherlock raises his chin. “My brothers and I go for long periods of time without indulging our base instincts. Unlike regular people, we control ourselves.”

“Uh-huh. That’s healthy. Starve yourself silly, then gorge when you can’t stand it anymore. I bet those call girls Mycroft sees are worn out by the time he gets done with them. I sure hope he tips well. You said yourself what Ford is like when he’s not pouring it all into the work. I’d tell poor Nev to run for the hills, if I weren’t 99% sure that Ford has finally met the one bloke who’s sluttier than he is. As for you—you’re insatiable, mate. I woke up this morning feeling like I’d been gang-banged by the French National Rugby team. You Holmeses love sex and hate people. What a desperate fucking dilemma that must be.” 

Sherlock wants to make a scathing reply to this. But he’s stymied by the rude truth of it. Before he can decide what to say, John has stalked across the room. He kneels on the bed, leaning close.

“If I were going to leave, sex couldn’t make me stay,” he says softly. “If a big cock and a good fuck were enough to convince me, I’d still be with Mark Morstan.”

Sherlock is quiet a moment. “Why do you stay, then?” 

John brushes Sherlock’s hair back from his face. “I love you,” he says. “I like taking care of you. It probably makes me a co-dependent git, but I don’t give a fuck. You need taking care of, Mycroft has that right. You’re not broken, not like Irene. But you’re not quite whole, are you?”

 _No._ Sherlock thinks. _Perhaps I have my childhood to thank for that. Or perhaps the darkness was always there, before I left my mother’s womb. A crueler, slyer disease then syphilis._

“I dreamed Moriarty cut you to pieces,” he whispers. “I saw what he did, and then I saw myself. What I would be without you. Something saner than Moriarty, and more monstrous. A rational, calculating horror. Maybe Mycroft would be able to take me down. Maybe not.”

“You’re a good man,” John says. “Even if I died, you would be.”

“You don’t know that. You haven’t been inside my head.” 

“I’ve been deep enough inside,” John says, smirking. He runs a hand down Sherlock’s chest. “There are a few cracks. But the structure is sound.”

His hand continues down. His fingers slowly trace the outline of Sherlock’s cock. Sherlock is a bit bewildered at this sudden shift in focus, but the lower half of him seems to be keeping up just fine. As John coaxes Sherlock’s cock through his trousers, it begins to swell with gusto. 

“I thought you weren’t motivated by sex,” Sherlock says, rather breathlessly.

“I said if I were planning to leave, sex couldn’t keep me. I’m not planning to leave, so you can fuck me. Or I can fuck you. I’m flexible.”

“Um—” Sherlock tries to express a preference, but just then his trousers are unzipped. John reaches through the boxer-briefs and pulls out Sherlock’s cock. He slides a thumb under the ridge of Sherlock’s foreskin. Sherlock hears a soft whining sound, and realizes he’s making it.

“I s-suppose either way would be—aghk!” Sherlock squawks as John nips his ear and tweaks his cock simultaneously.

“You’re so _desperate,_ Sherlock,” John says. “I love that about you.” He pushes Sherlock back on the bed and stretches over, reaching in the bedside table. He pulls out the famous Tesco bag.

“You—you foresaw this?” 

“What, sex? Given recent events, it doesn’t take Alan Turing to make that calculation, love. Take off your pants.”

Sherlock, who has already stripped himself of everything else, obeys. 

John is soon naked too, his cock standing temptingly at attention. Sherlock reaches for it, but John slaps his hand away. “I made up my mind. You’re not going to be in charge today.”

Sherlock starts to turn over, but John stops him with a touch. “Stay put. Don’t move.”

“What—”

“Don’t talk, either.” John reaches in the bag and takes out the lube. He puts it on the bedside table within easy reach. But he doesn’t use it yet. He stands at the foot of the bed, his thumb tapping on his hip, head tilted like he’s making further calculations. “Spread your legs.”

“Is this a shag or a prostate exam?”

“What did I say about talking? Shut. It. Or it’s just you and the nymphs, mate.” 

Sherlock stares at the ceiling and pouts. He stops when he feels a hand sliding down his belly. It plays with his cock, using natural lube from the weeping head to slicken the way. John does rough little circles over Sherlock’s foreskin and down the frenulum, cupping Sherlock’s balls before running a teasing finger over his asshole. 

“Raise your hips. Close your eyes.”

Sherlock complies. But what he feels next isn’t a finger. He feels warm wetness tonguing his balls, which is just lovely. Next he expects to feel a tongue on his cock, which would also be—

“Oh fucking Jeesssus!” he hisses, as John flicks his tongue into Sherlock’s ass.

“That—isn’t very safe—” he falters.

“Since when are you sodding safe?”

Sherlock opens his eyes. He stares at John, who gives him a challenging grin. 

“Come on. Let’s see how flexible you really are.” 

John pushes Sherlock’s knees back, back, until they are on either side of his ears. All of his weight is balanced on his shoulders and elbows, spine curved like a crescent, ass up in the air. He is totally, what should be humiliatingly, exposed. 

But he doesn’t care, because John is licking broad, wet strokes across his perineum. Sherlock can feel beard stubble scraping on his tender flesh, as that hot talented tongue licks smaller and smaller circles, getting nearer and nearer to its target.

When John flicks his tongue inside once more, Sherlock jerks, seeing little colored stars bloom before his eyes. John pulls back, licking around the hole, then flicks inside again. Sherlock is panting as the stars begin to shift and shimmer. Heat is building inside him, black and thick. 

John pulls further back, playfully sucking the head of Sherlock’s cock. 

“John, I can’t—”

But John ignores him, tracing around the rim of Sherlock’s hole until the muscles begin to give, relaxed by that flickering, licking warmth. Sherlock has his hands on John’s thighs for balance, he knows he’s gripping too hard but he can’t help it. John doesn’t mind, for he doesn’t stop. He slowly pumps Sherlock’s cock with his hand while his tongue gets all the way in. He’s making wet satisfied sounds as he feasts on Sherlock’s ass. It feels so fucking good but Sherlock knows that isn’t all it will be, the stars are spinning like pinwheels now as the heat builds and builds—

Oh God, so bloody wonderful. Like the whole world has narrowed to this one sensation, John’s tongue in Sherlock’s ass. Sherlock could feel it forever, nothing else, no doing and no thinking and no pain just hot and wet and deep and fuck me I’m going to—

John pulls away not five seconds before Sherlock would have come screaming. Sherlock stares at him in bewilderment. He can’t even berate John for his cruelty. All he can do is wheeze.

“Please—please—”

“Turn over and get on your knees,” John says calmly, and reaches for the lube.

Sherlock scrambles to obey. He’s desperate to get back in that safe warm place, the beautiful headspace where everything is shimmery purple pleasure, where nothing can ever go wrong because John has him, he’s taking care just like he promised—

Sherlock gives a long, wordless moan as John thrusts inside. He forgot—how could he forget—that there’s something that could feel better than John’s tongue. His lovely cock, pushing deep while his hand grips tight on Sherlock’s cock. John’s not going slowly, he’s not being safe at all, he’s fucking Sherlock so deep and hard that it hurts. It hurts so bloody good.

“Not yet,” John says in his ear. “You can’t come. Don’t come, Sherlock. Do you understand? I want you to keep feeling this. I want you to remember. Feel all—of—me.” He thrusts deeper and grips harder with each word.

Sherlock doesn’t come. He owes John this, to keep feeling although every nerve in his body is screaming. The flowers are back, blooming monstrously before his eyes, he wants to come he has to come he can’t come he will be good, he will be—

“Okay, love,” John whispers. “Come.”

The flowers burst and melt, as the heat flares up, up, up. He cries out as he climaxes, a single word over and over, repeated like a prayer. One that’s really a name. 

_John—_

He feels arms around him. John must have climaxed and withdrawn but Sherlock doesn’t feel the loss. He just feels _him._ It’s enough. It’s enough.

It seems like a long time later that Sherlock opens his eyes. He’s sticky and hot, but he doesn’t move an inch. He’s still held securely. 

“How do you feel?” John says. 

“Better,” Sherlock says. His headache is gone. For the first time since he woke this morning, he’s calm. At peace.

“Good. I want you to remember how this feels. You need to remember.”

Something in John’s voice makes Sherlock turn, sitting up on his elbow. He looks at John’s face.

There it is. All of the anger Sherlock has been dreading. John’s face is set, his eyes are ice. Sherlock feels a similar chill in his own stomach. But John cups his face gently. 

“I love you,” he says. “We will have a healthy relationship. If I have to shoot Jools Siviter and James Moriarty and every other cock who crosses our path. But you have to do your part. You have to think. Co-dependent I may be, but I’m not your missus. Even if you count the blokes in Budva, I’ve killed more people than you have. You won’t leave me here like the bloody princess in the tower while you run off to slay the dragon. _I don’t need rescuing._ Is that fucking clear?”

Sherlock nods. John leans close, whispering. “Think, Sherlock. Remember how much you love what I just did to you. Know that if there is ever a repeat of this morning’s stupidity, it will be a long, long time before I fuck you again. We’ll get to see just how good your control can be. But let’s be honest: When it comes to me and sex, your control is shit. Mine isn’t. Sex isn’t a motive for me, but it is a weapon. I will use it.”

“I understand,” Sherlock whispers. Of all the stern speeches he’s had to listen to today, this one will probably stay with him longest. The threat certainly will. John is right: He _is_ desperate. 

The ice melts. John smiles his most charming smile. He kisses Sherlock on the nose.

“Glad that’s sorted. Now put some clothes on. The registry office closes at four.”

Sherlock blinks. “You still want to get married? Now?”

“Why not? We may as well salvage something from the day. Can I wear your new jacket? I’ve been admiring it all morning.”

  
**END OF BOOK FIVE**


	53. Chapter 53

_Even so distant, I can taste the grief,_  
 _Bitter and sharp with stalks, he made you gulp._  
 _The sun's occasional print, the brisk brief_  
 _Worry of wheels along the street outside_  
 _Where bridal London bows the other way,_  
 _And light, unanswerable and tall and wide,_  
 _Forbids the scar to heal, and drives_  
 _Shame out of hiding. All the unhurried day,_  
 _Your mind lay open like a drawer of knives._

_Slums, years, have buried you. I would not dare_  
 _Console you if I could. What can be said,_  
 _Except that suffering is exact, but where_  
 _Desire takes charge, readings will grow erratic?_  
 _For you would hardly care_  
 _That you were less deceived, out on that bed,_  
 _Than he was, stumbling up the breathless stair_  
 _To burst into fulfillment's desolate attic._

_—Philip Larkin, “Deceptions”_

  
  
** BOOK SIX: 6-12 January 2013 **

  


* * *

  


_But first, a flashback (of sorts) . . ._  


  


****

**“VIRGIN SACRIFICES”**

 

By Ford Huxley

_Virgin [vur-jin]_

_1\. A person who has never had sexual intercourse_

_2\. Any person who is uninitiated, uninformed, or the like  
_

_3\. Not yet touched, used, or exploited_

_\--Merriam-Webster Dictionary_

_Can’t you hear my heart beat for the very first time?  
_

_\--Madonna_

**INT. 19 CHAPEL STREET, AUGUST 1985. EVENING.**

A boy’s bedroom, musty, cramped, totally unremarkable. Old furniture, Victorian but not in any way valuable, is jammed into the tiny space. There is a desk by the door, a low bookcase on the opposite wall, and a narrow bed next to the tall window, with a nightstand and lamp underneath. The wallpaper is faded grey, but you can’t see much of it, as nearly every inch of wall is taken up with posters. Some are paintings—Basquiat, Haring, Warhol. A few are pop groups, The Cure, Joy Division, and the like, but there aren’t many of those. Mostly it’s film posters, by Hitchcock, Kurosawa, Godard, Kubrick. Five by that last director, the largest hung right over the bed.

The boy is on the bed. His skinny limbs stretch out as best they can on the coffin-like mattress. Next to him is a book, an old hardcover edition of Huxley’s _Brave New World_ , but the boy isn’t reading it. He’s staring up at Alex DeLarge. Like Alex, the boy is smiling. He is handsome like Alex, but his smirk is less manic. He stares at Alex, but he’s not seeing him. Behind their spectacles his eyes are transfixed, a touch red. Who knows what he’s seeing? Maybe the images are inspired by the music that’s playing. You can hear it coming from the headphones over his ears, tinny but still audible. The melancholy chorus of The Cure’s “In Between Days.”

The music is the reason the boy doesn’t hear the knocking at the door, even when it becomes pounding. He only looks over when the door opens. (There is no lock on the door. The boy’s father doesn’t believe in them. Not for children’s bedrooms.)

The boy who opened the door is nothing like the boy on the bed. This second boy’s posture is stiff instead of loose, his jaw is set and his mouth pursed. He’s pudgy and not handsome at all. The boys have nothing in common. Well—something in the eyes, perhaps.

 **MYCROFT:** Are you deaf? I’ve been knocking for an age.

 **SHERRINFORD:** (hitting the stop button on his Walkman) What’s the rule about the door?  
  
 **MYCROFT:** I know about the bloody door, but—

 **SHERRINFORD:** If the door is closed, fuck off. My door is _always_ closed, Mikey.  
  
 **MYCROFT:** Why must you be so difficult, Sherrinford?  
  
 **SHERRINFORD:** Why must you be so fat?

 **MYCROFT:** You’re stoned.  

 **SHERRINFORD:** An hour ago I was stoned. Now I’m pleasantly mellow.

 **MYCROFT:** You’ve been smoking that filth with the gardener’s boy again.

 **SHERRINFORD:** His name is Bijan. You’d know that if you weren’t such a snob. (laying back down) Now get the fuck out.

Mycroft takes a few steps into the room, a strange expression flickering across his face. It’s too raw to be jealousy and too hurt to be anger. Very soon it’s gone, leaving coldness in its place.

 **MYCROFT:** What do you do on the roof with Bijan?  
  
 **SHERRINFORD:** We smoke weed. We listen to The sodding Cure. He’s my _friend_ , you big perv. I know that’s an alien concept for you.

Sherrinford sits up, snatching the headphones off and tossing them away. He gets up from the bed, pulling his t-shirt over his head. He opens the closet next to the bookcase and rummages inside. He slips on a dark blue long-sleeved shirt and begins buttoning it.

 **MYCROFT:** Where are you going?

 **SHERRINFORD:** I have a date. Not that it’s any of your business.

 **MYCROFT:** With Felicity?

 **SHERRINFORD:** (smirking into the mirror over the bookcase as he combs his hair) Jealous?  
  
 **MYCROFT:** No.

For a moment the boys’ eyes meet in the mirror. Sherrinford stops smirking.

 **SHERRINFORD:** I thought I told you to get the fuck out.

 **MYCROFT:** You’re not seeing Felicity. Father wants you.

 **SHERRINFORD:** Why?

 **MYCROFT:** I don’t know. He has his car keys. Some sort of outing.

 **SHERRINFORD:** (laughs) Right. Last time we went on an outing, Princess Di was our nanny.

 **MYCROFT:** Sherlock and I aren’t going. Just you and father.

It’s impossible to tell from his tone how Mycroft feels about this. But the effect on Sherrinford is acute. Every muscle in his body seems to still. Then, slowly, he turns around. He looks into his brother’s eyes

 **SHERRINFORD:** Mycroft. What have you been saying to him?

 **MYCROFT:** What could I possibly say?  
  
 **SHERRINFORD:** (coming a step closer) All those chummy little chats you have. Out with it! What poison have you been pouring in his ear?

He thumps Mycroft squarely in his well-padded chest, but Mycroft just shakes his head. Sherrinford leans forward until the two of them are nose-to-nose.

 **SHERRINFORD:** Where the hell is he taking me?  
  
 **MYCROFT:** I have no idea. (pauses) He doesn’t know about Bijan and the cannabis. I swear.  

Ford turns back to the mirror. He places the comb on its ledge carefully, like he has to will his fingers to open. He has gone very pale except for two spots of color high on his cheekbones.

 **MYCROFT:** Whatever you’ve done, just admit it. Father will understand.

 **SHERRINFORD:** (laughing painfully) Are you fucking joking?

He remains turned away, a hand to his middle. The look on his face is awful, blank but still somehow guilty.   For the barest instant, the same expression is mirrored in the other boy’s face.

 **MYCROFT:** Ford, I—

Slowly, he reaches out. His fingertips barely graze his brother’s back. But if Sherrinford feels the touch, he doesn’t give any sign. He straightens his shoulders and exits without another word.

Mycroft stays where he is, hands clenched, staring at the empty place where his brother was.

 

**CUT TO:**

**INT. A CERTAIN HOUSE IN ST. JOHN’S WOOD. LATER THAT SAME EVENING.**

 

The bedroom is very nice, very plush. It’s dominated by a big four-poster bed made of some dark, glossy wood. The other furniture in the room—chest, table, the legs of the chair near the fireplace—is also of this same wood, and wonderfully carved. There are paintings hung on the walls, the usual posh people in archaic clothes, set against Arcadian landscapes. The bed linens are a creamy fabric that shimmers, matching the plump upholstery on the chair. This is a very comforting space—even erotic, for those of a certain caste and temperament. An Edwardian womb of satin and rosewood.

The room is, of course, sparkling clean and in perfect order. The only exception to this are the wrinkled bedlinens, which appear to have seen recent activity of a rather frenetic nature. All is quiet now, though. Reclining on the bed is a beautiful woman in tasteful lingerie. Her face is a perfect oval, her skin a deep, velvety brown. Her eyes are also brown, and as round as her wide, lush mouth. Her hair spirals around her head in perfect black ringlets. Like the rest of the room, this woman is expensive, carefully curated. A thing of beauty, fashioned to please.

She gives a sympathetic smile to the boy hunched in the chair. She knows that he isn’t pleased.

 **VICTORIA:** It’s okay, love. Happens all the time. You’d be surprised how often.

Sherrinford says nothing. He’s still mostly dressed, though his shirt is unbuttoned and he isn’t wearing his spectacles. But he seems far more naked than the woman on the bed. Vulnerable.

 **VICTORIA:** We can try again in a few minutes. It’s no problem.

 **SHERRINFORD:** (somehow still polite) Thank you very much. But—no.

Victoria gets off the bed. She kneels in front of the boy so that he has to look into her face. This also gives him an excellent view of her impressive cleavage. His gaze does drop for a moment, but then it comes right back up again, meeting her eyes miserably.

 **VICTORIA:** Come on, sweetie. Buck up. You’ve got the rest of your life to get good at this.

Sherrinford looks frankly terrified at the idea. Victoria’s perfectly arched brows draw together. Her charming smile dims to an assessing look.

 **VICTORIA:** This isn’t what you pictured, is it?  
  
 **SHERRINFORD:** (softly) I never thought about it.

 **VICTORIA:** Never?  
  
 **SHERRINFORD:** I mean—that is to say— (chin jerks up, suddenly defiant) I have a girlfriend.

 **VICTORIA:** Of course you do. A handsome lad like you.

 **SHERRINFORD:** She’s gorgeous. She’s sweet. She—she looks a bit like you.

 **VICTORIA:** What’s her name?

 **SHERRINFORD:** Felicity.  

 **VICTORIA:** Do you love Felicity? Is that why you can’t do this?  
  
 **SHERRINFORD:** (nodding with enthusiasm, clinging to the idea) Yes. That’s it. I’d feel awful if I—you know, with someone else.

 **VICTORIA:** You’d rather do this with her?  
  
 **SHERRINFORD:** _No!_ I mean—not yet. It would be wrong.

 **VICTORIA:** Why?  
 **  
SHERRINFORD:** Oh, for fuck’s sake, woman! Does everything have to be about sex? Can’t a bloke have a girlfriend he just likes talking to? Can’t we see a film or meet for coffee like two rational human beings, without bringing our genitalia into it? Can’t I just have a—

 **VICTORIA:** Friend?  
  
Sherrinford stares at her for a moment. Then, with real ferocity, he grabs Victoria’s chin and kisses her. If Victoria is surprised, she doesn’t show it, consummate professional that she is. Instead she lets the boy set the pace, returning his advances with practiced enthusiasm. It’s quite a convincing display, considering everything, and it goes on a while. Sherrinford’s hand moves down to her breast, rubbing the hard nipple through the silky fabric.

Victoria rises, straddling the boy on the chair, giving him better access to her body. Sherrinford’s face is flushed and his eyes are glazed. He looks very much like a normal boy should look at a moment like this. His hand slides up one of Victoria’s silken thighs. His fingers explore under the lacy border of her lingerie. He’s going to do this. He _can_ do this. He—

He gives a choked cry. He pushes her away.

 **SHERRINFORD:** Leave me alone! Please.

Victoria backs off, giving him space. She looks down at him sadly. Sherrinford requires a moment to recover. He looks up at her with wet eyes.

It takes him a while to speak. When he does it’s slowly, as if he’s forcing every word.

 **SHERRINFORD:** You’re lovely. Your face, your hair, your breasts—so lovely. But I can’t. It’s wrong. I’m— _I’m_ wrong.   I’m so sorry.

He stops. He has to. Tears are running down his cheeks.

Victoria kneels again, hugging him. This touch he can stand. He buries his face in the crook of her neck for a moment, shuddering all over.

But soon he gathers himself. He takes the tissue that she holds out, drying his eyes.

 **SHERRINFORD:** Fucking hell. I thought you ladies appreciated a gentleman.

She laughs more than this feeble joke deserves.

 **VICTORIA:** We do. You’re thin upon the ground these days. That’s what Mummy always said.

She kisses him on the cheek. Sherrinford cups her face, not ferocious this time but desperate.

 **SHERRINFORD:** My father can’t know. Please don’t tell.

 **VICTORIA:** My lips are sealed, lovey.  
  
 **SHERRINFORD:** He’ll see it on your face. He sees everything.

 **VICTORIA:** I can fake him out.

She stretches, displaying her perfect feminine form in its frilly undies. Sherrinford regards her in an unfriendly fashion. Resentment burning in his breast, over the failure her body represents.

 **SHERRINFORD:** You don’t know him.

 **VICTORIA:** I know men. They see what they want to see.

 **SHERRINFORD:** (rather nastily) Did Mummy tell you that?  
  
 **VICTORIA:** No, my girlfriend did. She’s even prettier than yours, I reckon. Get dressed.

She chucks him under the chin. Then she rises, crossing the room to get to her dressing gown.

Sherrinford stares after her for a moment, blinking. Finally, the ghost of a smile flits across his face. He puts on his spectacles.  

 

**CUT TO:**

**INT. 19 CHAPEL STREET. STILL LATER THAT EVENING**.

 

The lounge at 19 Chapel Street is dim. You can just make out the shapes of the musty Victorian furniture. In the shadows, the eyes in the old pictures on the walls are barely visible. They look down upon the people in the lounge with grim satisfaction. _Someday you’ll be here,_ they seem to say. _You’ll be just like us._

Sherrinford ignores them, a sound policy when confronted by the more forbidding aspects of one’s history. He’s making his way to the staircase at double-pace, hoping to escape into the same silence that reigned during the car ride home. But his father’s voice stops him short.

 **SIGER:** Wait a moment.

 **SHERRINFORD:** I really must go to bed, Father. I feel one of my headaches—

 **SIGER:** This won’t take long.    

Siger nods towards his study. Sherrinford looks pained but follows without further complaint. He sees his father silhouetted in the light coming from the study. Siger’s narrow-shouldered figure is more forbidding than the ancestors on the wall.

**CUT TO:**

**INT. SIGER’S OFFICE**

While the furniture here is no less antique, the study doesn’t have the funereal atmosphere of the lounge. It’s used too often for that. The enormous rosewood desk which dominates the room is covered with folders, arranged in neat stacks by language. To the right of the door is an upright piano, so old its keys are made of real ivory. On top of it is a carriage clock, ticking relentlessly through the hours. Behind the desk, to the right, is a large antique globe of museum quality. The sections of wall not occupied by windows are lined with books on a thousand different subjects. Everything here is old, and everything would be valuable if it didn’t all reek of cigarettes. The smell permeates everything, like heavy grey fingers pressing on your temples.    

Siger motions his son to the red leather guest chair. Sherrinford hesitates in the doorway, as if reluctant to enter further into the lion’s den.

 **SIGER:** Sit. You know I detest having to crane my neck to look at someone.

Sherrinford sits, clenching his hands in his lap. Siger goes to the handsome glass and walnut cabinet that stands by the piano, taking out a crystal decanter of whiskey and two glasses. He puts the decanter and glasses on the desk, pouring three fingers of whiskey for himself and one for Sherrinford. He sits at the desk, pushing his son’s glass to him.

Sherrinford’s fingers tap nervously near the glass, but they don’t touch it.

 **SIGER:** Drink. Best cure for a migraine. I speak from experience.

The boy drinks, grimacing slightly at the taste. Siger lights a cigarette with calm deliberation. Light from the desk lamp gleams in the old man’s thick silver hair. It’s his best feature, for he is not handsome, and never was. Below that shining pelt is a thin, cunning face, seamed with time and nicotine. His expression is unreadable. This should be a convivial moment, father and son sharing a drink after a rite of passage. But the atmosphere is not warm. For many reasons, it isn’t.

 **SIGER:** So. You’re a homosexual.

Sherrinford chokes, spraying whiskey all over himself and the folders nearest him. Not batting an eye, Siger hands his son a wad of tissues. Sherrinford mops up, seeming almost grateful to have a reason not to look at his father. Finally, the mess is clear. He disposes of the tissues in the waste bin and sits back down. The silence ticks on until he can’t stand it.

 **SHERRINFORD:** (flushing) I don’t know what Victoria said to you—

 **SIGER:** Don’t blame the girl. She was discreet. _Convincing_ , as befits her profession.

The boy’s shoulders hunch in silent misery. Siger waits him out, taking drags on his cigarette. His exhalations wreathe the desk in smoke. Sherrinford coughs, reaching for the whiskey glass again. But he can’t bring himself to drink it. Siger’s lips twist with something like amusement.

 **SHERRINFORD:** I’m not _—_ what you say _._ I was just nervous.

 **SIGER:** I might believe you, if it weren’t for all of the other evidence.

 **SHERRINFORD:** (spitting the syllables) Mycroft.  
  
 **SIGER:** He has nothing to do with this. If he did, you’d have no reason to feel betrayed. You’ve done everything in your power to alienate him.

 **SHERRINFORD:** _I’ve_ done things?

 **SIGER:** Stupid of you, to carry a grudge. He’s your brother.

 **SHERRINFORD:** So fucking loyal.

 **SIGER:** He is. Someday you’ll appreciate that.

Sherrinford rolls his eyes.

 **SIGER:** You are a spoiled, willful boy. I suppose that’s my fault, but it’s too late now. You were 16 last Monday, your character is formed. But that doesn’t mean it can’t be—honed.

 **SHERRINFORD:** What?  
  
 **SIGER:** Self-control, lad. You will learn to manage your condition.

 **SHERRINFORD:** I don’t have a condition! I haven’t—I’m not—

He jumps as something is thrown on the desk in front of him. He blinks when he sees what it is. His father has reached into a desk drawer and plucked out a magazine. Sherrinford stares at the thin glossy paper, the garish pictures. It’s pornography of the cheapest and most explicit kind, girl-on-girl. So ridiculously raw that it’s hard to imagine anyone buying it except as a sick joke.

 **SIGER:** Quite a present you gave your brother on his last birthday. I shudder to think what you’ve got planned for this year.

 **SHERRINFORD:** (muttering) Just a joke. That’s all it was.

 **SIGER:** You should be careful of jokes. They have a funny way of revealing truth.

 **SHERRINFORD:** So Mycroft’s a perv. Is anybody surprised?  
  
 **SIGER:** Any adolescent boy would be intrigued by this, inelegant as it is. Any normal boy. That you didn’t understand that speaks volumes. Also, the fact that you’ve kept none of the magazines for yourself.   Weren’t you even curious?

Sherrinford can’t keep the flash of disgust off his face. His father gives a slight nod.

 **SIGER:** You don’t keep your own pornography in your room. Nor anywhere else in this house—I’ve looked. At first I couldn’t understand, but then I remembered. The curious way your mind works. You obtain the magazines that do appeal to you, look at them once, and discard them. But you have the pictures forever. Perfect visual recall: My father had it, too.

Sherrinford looks down at his hands.

 **SIGER:** Your girlfriend, Felicity. Has she begun to wonder why your relationship is stuck in neutral? She’s an American, perhaps she thinks English boys are just shy. She’ll see the truth eventually. When she makes a move—she’s American, she certainly will—how disappointed she’s going to be. She’ll say cruel things to you. She might even _talk._ Best to spare yourself and end things now. Make up a new love, tell her a story. (lip curling) You’re good at those.

 **SHERRINFORD:** Why—why are you saying these things?  
  
 **SIGER:** I’m making a point. Despite your best efforts at concealment, the truth is obvious. You’re a homosexual. That’s an unfortunate turn of events, but it’s not fatal. You can still have a political career.   You may occupy 10 Downing Street yet. The right wife will make all the difference. Not Felicity, though. An American won’t do, even if her father is a billionaire.

 **SHERRINFORD:** I’m not going to be a politician.

 **SIGER:** (raising an eyebrow) Because you’re going to be Stanley Kubrick?    
  
Sherrinford flushes again. It’s not an easy thing, hearing your most cherished hope laid bare. Especially when it’s pronounced with such contempt.

 **SIGER:** Is that what you’ve been dreaming of this summer, mooching around the house with your novels and your pop records? Don’t be an idiot. You’re not that good at telling stories.

 **SHERRINFORD:** Mum does it.

 **SIGER:** Your mother has published a few cheap paperbacks. As ridiculous as this (he flicks the porn) but even less original. No, your talents lie elsewhere. You’re good-looking and glib. Rather remarkably superficial, but charming. You’re not stupid, but you’re good at dumbing yourself down to make people like you. And you must be liked, mustn’t you? Your need for attention is almost pathological. I couldn’t imagine a more perfect politician if I tried.

Siger takes a drag on his cigarette. He looks at his eldest son as if searching the depths of that adolescent soul. You might mistake the expression for concern, if it weren’t so predatory.

 **SIGER:** I don’t say any of this to insult or to flatter you. It’s merely a truth you need to hear. There’s no end to what you and your brother could accomplish, if you would let go of childish fantasies. These things you desire— _all_ these things—are false and foolish. But you can move beyond them. All it takes is an exercise of will.

 **SHERRINFORD:** (slowly) So this is what you think of me. I have wondered. Now that I know, I’m not surprised. The only thing that does surprise me is how delusional you are. Me and Mycroft taking on the world? Me as the Prime Minister, are you mad? I’m not doing it. Shaking hands, kissing babies, standing by some stupid Sloane Ranger of a wife that you’ve picked out? I’m not Prince fucking Charles. That’s not _me._

 **SIGER:** No. What you are is disgusting. But you won’t disgrace us like your Uncle Evelyn. You will control yourself.

 **SHERRINFORD:** If I don’t?  
  
 **SIGER:** You’re spoiled and willful, but you’re _not_ stupid. I don’t have to spell everything out.

 **SHERRINFORD:** Pretend I am stupid. What will you do?

His father shrugs, blowing a cloud of smoke in Sherrinford’s face.

 **SIGER:** There is help available for boys who can’t control themselves. There are hospitals, there are _treatments_. If you won’t will the fairy out of yourself, I’ll burn it out. Drugs, shock therapy, hormone shots. My people are thorough. You won’t have those feelings when they’re done. (grinding his fag in the ashtray) But you may have breasts. An unfortunate side effect.

Sherrinford stares at his father. There is such despair on his face that most people would take pity. Any normal man would. Siger is merely calm. The total composure of someone who is capable of anything.

 **SHERRINFORD:** I’m your son. Doesn’t that even matter?

 **SIGER:** Oh, don’t look so tragic! You knew it was a possibility. That’s why you were so nervous when you came downstairs tonight. You thought we were going to a hospital, didn’t you?   But I was giving you the benefit of the doubt. I didn’t want to believe that my son is a homosexual. I’m as pained by the situation as you are. 

**SHERRINFORD:** Poor you! I see now. This wasn’t father-son bonding, was it? I thought you were _trying,_ in your own fucked-up way. But you weren’t. Tonight was a bloody test.

 **SIGER:** One you failed.   I wish you hadn’t.

 **SHERRINFORD:** Mum won’t let you hospitalize me.

 **SIGER:** Your mother is in Australia writing dime novels. She’s not _here_ , Sherrinford.

 **SHERRINFORD:** Whose fault is that?  
  
 **SIGER:** She made her choices, as will you. We’ll discuss this further, but not tonight. It’s been a long day and a longer evening. Go to bed. Things will be less tragic after a good night’s sleep.

 **SHERRINFORD:** I hate you.

 **SIGER:** I hated my father. As it turned out, that was no bar to friendship.

 **SHERRINFORD:** (voice shaking) I will never be your friend. Who the fuck could be? Only Mycroft, because he’s just like you. Why don’t you take him to the whorehouse? He’s the one who needs to learn to buy his women, like you do. No wonder Mum left you for Patrick. No woman in her right mind would ever want you!  
  
Siger stands. He strikes his son hard across the face. He hasn’t changed expression, but his left hand is clenched in a fist. As if he’d like to hit the boy again, a real punch instead of a slap.

 **SIGER:** _Go to bed._ You’re overwrought.

Sherrinford stays for one more defiant moment, a hand to his stinging cheek. Then his control finally snaps. He flees the office, running across the lounge to the stairs, which he takes two at a time. Soon the pounding of his feet fades, and the usual oppressive hush settles over the house.

Alone, Siger allows himself a sigh. He finishes the last of his whiskey and stands, picking up the pornography as if to throw it away. Then he stops. His gaze lingers over one particularly garish photo. Sitting again, he begins to page slowly through the magazine. He lights another cigarette.

 

**CUT TO:**

**INT. 19 CHAPEL STREET. UPSTAIRS** **HALLWAY.**

 

Sherrinford walks down the hallway. He’s not running now, but moving like someone dazed. His features can’t be seen. He’s just a skinny shadow, pushing open one of the hallway doors.

 

**CUT TO:**  
  
 **INT. 19 CHAPEL STREET. UPSTAIRS BATH.**

 

The room is small with ancient fixtures: a pedestal sink, a clawfoot tub marked with rust stains, and, in the corner, a toilet so old its tank is by the ceiling, attached to the wall with one iron pipe snaking downwards. There is a double sconce over the sink mirror, but Sherrinford doesn’t turn it on. He looks wraithlike in the weak blue light from the window.

He kneels in front of the toilet. His shoulders heave. Soon comes the unmistakable sound of vomiting. It goes on for some time, until he’s spent. He leans his face against the wood seat, breathing fast. He doesn’t open his eyes even when the sink light flicks on.

 **MYCROFT:** Dear God. What’s the matter with you?  
  
 **SHERRINFORD:** Go away.

 **MYCROFT:** You’re ill. I’m getting Father.

 **SHERRINFORD:** (eyes flying open) Don’t you fucking dare.

He gets up, yanking the chain to the toilet tank. As it flushes, he staggers to the sink. He opens the mirrored cabinet and takes down a plastic bottle of cinnamon mouthwash. Mycroft grimaces as Sherrinford drinks straight from the bottle, but says nothing.

 **MYCROFT:** What happened?

 **SHERRINFORD:** (spitting out mouthwash) Fuck you.

 **MYCROFT:** I don’t—

Sherrinford whirls around, slamming his brother into the wall by the door. The action knocks the bottle of mouthwash off the sink. It crashes to the floor, red liquid going everywhere.

 **SHERRINFORD:** What did you tell him? _What the fuck was it?_

 **MYCROFT:** (twisting in his grip) Are you insane?

 **SHERRINFORD:** Apparently! He wants to have me institutionalized.   Do you understand? They’re going to give me electric shocks. Shoot me up with monkey glands and God knows what else. So don’t lie to me. Because I know you are. I knew it three fucking hours ago.

 **MYCROFT:** I _didn’t_ tell him about the roof. I swear!

Sherrinford says nothing, relentlessly waiting. Mycroft can’t seem to stand the scrutiny. He suddenly jerks to the side, moving fast for a pudgy fifteen-year-old. He backs up to the edge of the sink, giving his brother a wary look, expecting further attacks. But Sherrinford just leans against the wall, still waiting. Mycroft rubs at a tiny spot of mouthwash on his shirt, but it’s insufficient distraction. He sighs.

 **MYCROFT:** Father found the magazines. He asked how I acquired them. What could I say?

 **SHERRINFORD:** Is this your first fucking day? Make something up, you tit! Tell him they came from one of your non-existent mates. It’s the least you could do. If it weren’t for me, you’d still be wanking off to sodding mermaids.

 **MYCROFT:** Oh, please! As if you gave me those magazines out of the kindness of your heart! You were being horrible, like you’re always horrible. Why wouldn’t I answer his questions?  
  
 **SHERRINFORD:** _Questions?_ What else did he ask you?  
  
Mycroft goes silent. Sherrinford crosses the room in one bound. He tries to grab Mycroft again, but Mycroft pushes him back with a vicious shove. His usual aura of middle-aged gravity has fallen away, leaving a coiled knot of teenage fury.

 **MYCROFT:** Don’t touch me again. I don’t care what happened to you tonight. I will put you through that fucking window.

 **SHERRINFORD:** Two months of self-defense lessons, and he’s Bruce fucking Lee. But you know what? Fine. Like every female on this planet, I don’t want to touch you. All I want is the truth. Can you do that? Just once, can you act like a person and not a—a henchman? I know you love your Daddy very much, but Christ! Shock treatments, Mike. Is that what you want?

Mycroft doesn’t reply. He runs the tail of his shirt under the sink tap, rubbing at the spot.

 **SHERRINFORD:** Maybe it is. Maybe you’re even worse than I thought.

 **MYCROFT:** No. I didn’t know what he’d do with the information. That’s the truth.

 **SHERRINFORD:** _What_ information?

 **MYCROFT:** He asked if you were—he asked about your relationship with Felicity. He travels so much, and he knows I’ve had the opportunity to observe you two more closely than he—

 **SHERRINFORD:** He wanted to know if I was fucking her. Oh you stupid—

 **MYCROFT:** Well, you’re not fucking her, are you? As far as I can see, you’re not even trying! All those afternoons in the conservatory, listening to music and arguing about cinema! When any normal man would— (he cuts off, flushing)

 **SHERRINFORD:** Yeah. She’s really pretty. You’d have tried to get in there weeks ago, wouldn’t you? If you were capable of actual speech around her, which you’re not.

He slides down the wall by the sink, running hands through his hair.

 **SHERRINFORD:** I’m not sure who’s more pathetic. You or me.

 **MYCROFT:** Sherrinford. I am aware my conduct has not been beyond reproach. But you must see that your own—

 **SHERRINFORD:** Right. It’s definitely you.

Mycroft stands stiffly, hands clenched. His face is still red, but he chokes out the question.

 **MYCROFT:** The outing. Where did Father take you?  
  
 **SHERRINFORD:** It wasn’t an outing, it was a test. He knew I would fail it, of course. If I couldn’t shag one pretty girl, why would I shag another? (glancing up at Mycroft) Yeah, it was a brothel. You can imagine what that was like for me.  Because you _know_ , don’t you? What I am. You’ve known for a long time.

 **MYCROFT:** (softly) Yes.

 **SHERRINFORD:** This didn’t have to happen. If you’d told him I was shagging Felicity, he’d have believed you. He always believes you.

 **MYCROFT:** You expect me to lie for you. After all these years. Everything you’ve said.

Sherrinford stands. Mycroft starts to back away, but Sherrinford catches him fast. He grips Mycroft’s chin, leaning close. In the harsh light of the bath, the red mark from Siger’s hand is painfully visible on Sherrinford’s cheekbone. Mycroft stares at it, blinking rapidly.

 **SHERRINFORD:** After all these years. Everything you did to this family. If our positions had been reversed, I would have lied for you. (voice breaking) I would have saved you from him. You fucking idiot.

Sherrinford releases him and walks out of the bathroom. For a moment, Mycroft stands frozen.   Then, slowly, he kneels. He unbuttons his pale grey shirt, shrugging it off. With careful strokes, he begins cleaning up the spilled mouthwash. The red liquid stains the fabric like blood. The shirt will be ruined. Mycroft keeps scrubbing.  

 

**CUT TO:**

**INT. 19 CHAPEL STREET. SHERRINFORD’S ROOM.**

 

Sherrinford is staring into the mirror over the bookcase. The room behind him is dark except for streetlight from the window. It’s also silent, his Walkman forgotten on the bed. The boy stares and stares, no expression on his face. Then, suddenly, he smiles.

Sherrinford smashes his face into the mirror. The sound is loud in the small space, but the walls are thick and nobody hears. Or if they do, nobody comes. Sherrinford looks back in the mirror.

The old glass has shattered to spiderweb cracks. A few chunks have fallen out, leaving jagged shards on the floor. The left lens of Sherrinford’s spectacles has cracks which match the ones in the mirror. He takes them off, folding the specs neatly and leaving them on the bookcase. Drops of red snake down his face from a shallow cut on his forehead. He’s still smiling.

He stretches out on the bed, staring up at Alex DeLarge. His face goes expressionless again. He’s not seeing the poster. Impossible to know what he’s seeing in the night and silence. The boy is as still as a corpse; he doesn’t flinch when the creaky old door drifts open, and a dark figure settles on the edge of the bed.

 **SHERRINFORD:** Go away.

The figure moves closer, undeterred.  
  
 **SHERRINFORD:** Are you fucking deaf?

He pushes at it, as if to push it off the bed, but the figure neatly ducks his hand. It settles itself on the spare pillow and begins to purr.

 **SHERRINFORD:** Oh Jesus. (voice shaking) Oh fucking hell.

The huge orange cat nuzzles the boy’s hair. Its tongue, delicate as a ribbon but raspier, licks at Sherrinford’s forehead. The cat doesn’t stop until the boy is entirely clean.

Sherrinford begins to cry. He curls himself in a ball around the cat, his skinny body wracked with sobs. The cat observes this with the cool composure of a dominant feline. But it doesn’t leave the bed. It allows the boy to clutch on, burying his face in that broad furry back.

Finally, the boy can’t cry anymore. He sits up on an elbow, blinking his red eyes and wiping bits of fur from his cheek. The cat starts to lick him again, relishing the last salty tears leaking down Sherrinford’s face. With a laughing sob, the boy pushes him away.

 **SHERRINFORD:** Christ, Walsingham. You’re such a pervert.

Walsingham stands upon his dignity, curling his fluffy tail around his feet. His gold eyes stare at the boy, unblinking.

 **SHERRINFORD:** Takes one to know one, right? Bloody unfair, if you think about it. When you were a catling, you rogered Mycroft’s teddy how many times? Nobody sent you to hospital.

Walsingham gives a flick of his long ears, faintly acknowledging the follies of youth. Sherrinford scritches the cat under his chin. Walsingham purrs louder.

 **SHERRINFORD:** Though Mrs. Thompson finally threw Winnie away, didn’t she? Do you miss your little butt boy, Wally? Or is killing things an adequate outlet for the libido?  That would explain so much about this family. Maybe that’s what I should do. Go on a _Clockwork Orange_ -style rampage. I’ve already been threatened with the fucking Ludovico Technique.

Walsingham nips at the boy’s fingers. He turns over on his back, presenting a fat, fluffy belly.

 **SHERRINFORD:** Oh, I’m sorry. Was my existential crisis interfering with your schedule?

But he rubs the cat’s belly anyway. The boy remains pale and ravaged, but it’s impossible to totally despair when you are knuckle-deep in silky fluff.   Sherrinford doesn’t even grimace a moment later, when his wrist is given a sharp warning nip. He pulls his hand back.

 **SHERRINFORD:** Right. You’ve had your fun. I can just fuck right off, eh? (smiling a bit) Not a bad philosophy, actually. Better than getting tossed into the bin. (his smile fades) Fuck me, what an awful day. Tortures of the fucking damned. What have I done to deserve this?

Walsingham, like most cats, has very little patience for whining. He stretches, showing Ford his fuzzy posterior. Then he leaps off the bed and trots out the door.

 **SHERRINFORD:** Thanks for your support! Dick.

Sighing, Sherrinford lies back on the bed. His fingers play over his headphones, but he doesn’t put them on. Which is why his hearing is sharp enough that he catches the noise. Even without his spectacles, he glimpses the small figure lingering in the hallway. Larger than Walsingham, but less self-assured.

 **SHERRINFORD:** (tiredly) What are you doing up, baby brother?

Slowly, the door swings wide and a boy pokes his head in. He’s small for his age, though his mass of dark hair sticks up a few inches, giving him more height. But the adolescent growth spurt his older brothers are enjoying won’t hit him for another decade. He was five years old in January, and he’s often mistaken for younger. His reluctance to speak compounds the problem. As does the look in his eyes, a blankness people take for stupidity. People are idiots.

Sherlock can speak very well, when he chooses to speak. And those grey eyes of his don’t miss much. Sherrinford suspects his youngest brother may prove the cleverest of them all. He should have an interesting life, if he can survive his childhood. He probably will: Holmeses are tough, and there’s only room for one fuck-up in the family. Sherrinford has that territory covered.

 **SHERRINFORD:** Come in if you’re coming. (turns on the bedside lamp) Mind the glass.

Sherlock inches his way into the room. He avoids the broken mirror, though his eyes widen as he takes it in. He sits on the end of the bed, clutching a book against his chest.

 **SHERRINFORD:** Story time, is it? What have you got there, the D’Aulaires again?  
  
Sherlock shakes his head. He holds out the book. Sherrinford rolls his eyes.

 **SHERRINFORD:** _Brave New World_? I don’t think so.

Sherlock’s brow wrinkles. He stares at his brother questioningly.

 **SHERRINFORD:** You’re too young. Seven years too young, at least.   I was 12 when I first read it. (mutters) Look how I turned out.

Sherlock looks very much like he wants to speak. Sherrinford waits patiently—there’s no use hurrying his little brother along. He’ll talk if he talks, and he doesn’t always.

But he finally does. His voice is low but perfectly articulated, with none of the lisps or baby constructions of a normal five-year-old. 

**SHERLOCK:** Did you and Mycroft have a fight?

 **SHERRINFORD:** What makes you say that?  
  
 **SHERLOCK:** I heard you in the bath.

 **SHERRINFORD:** (ruefully) What did you hear?  
  
 **SHERLOCK:** You sounded—loud. I couldn’t make it out. You and Mycroft mix everything with French so. I can’t always follow. (gives Sherrinford a determined look) I am learning. _Je parle en peu de Fran_ _çais._

 **SHERRINFORD:** _Tr_ _és bien, mon cher._ I’m sorry Mycroft and I confused you. To be honest, I didn’t even notice. It all sounded like the bloody Queen’s English to me.

Sherlock doesn’t reply. His eyes fasten on the broken mirror. Then he looks back at his brother.

 **SHERLOCK:** You’re bleeding.

 **SHERRINFORD:** It was an accident. Grab us a tissue, would you?  
  
Sherlock goes to the desk and takes a tissue from the box there. He gives it to Sherrinford, who presses it to his forehead.   Then the little boy sits on the bed again. His small fingers trace over the dark blue cover of _Brave New World._

 **SHERLOCK:** Why am I too young? Is there—is there _inappropriate_ material?  
  
 **SHERRINFORD:** (smiling) Inappropriate? Did Mycroft teach you that? What am I saying, of course he did. Do you know what that word means?

 **SHERLOCK:** It means it’s wrong. When I told Mrs. Thompson her shepherd’s pie had too many peas, Mycroft said that was inappropriate. (his words speed up, warming to the subject) Though it _did_ have too many peas, so I don’t know why that was incorrect. Usually she does better, I think she’s worried about her daughter.

 **SHERRINFORD:** She bloody well should be. That one’s trouble. Came by to help her mum do the windows last month, and I found her up here in my room. Put her grabby little hand on my— (stops, blinks)   Anyway, it was inappropriate. But how clever of you to work it all out! We’ll make a gumshoe of you yet, small one. Remember when we watched _The Big Sleep?_

 **SHERLOCK:** I’m going to be a pirate. (looks uncertain) Though Mycroft told me there aren’t pirates anymore, and even if there were they aren’t nice people.

 **SHERRINFORD:** Sod Mycroft. You be a pirate if you want to be a pirate. I’ll help you.

 **SHERLOCK:** Do you want to be a pirate, Sherrinford?  
  
 **SHERRINFORD:** (with a mirthless smile) According to some, I already am.

 **SHERLOCK:** I’m sorry?

 **SHERRINFORD:** Never mind.

His cheerful humor has faded again. He falls silent, staring pensively at the quilt. Sherlock, responsive as a lyre to changes in the air, looks at his brother with a worried expression. He pushes _Brave New World_ away from him.

 **SHERLOCK:** We don’t have to read the book. If it makes you sad.

 **SHERRINFORD:** (looking up startled, as if he’d forgotten his brother was there) Huh? What gave you that idea?  
  
 **SHERLOCK:** You’ve been sad since your birthday. Since Mummy’s package came.

 **SHERRINFORD:** Containing her lovely present of a first edition of Aldous Huxley’s book. Which I’ve been reading all week, including today. That’s a clever deduction, baby brother. But I’m afraid it’s erroneous. (seeing Sherlock’s puzzled expression) That means it’s incorrect. I was sad last week because I wished Mum was here. Or that I was in Australia, which might be the better plan all the way around. As for today . . .

He’s trails off, going mute for another minute. Then he rouses himself, picking up the book.

 **SHERRINFORD:** I suppose I should be cross with you. You know you’re not supposed to come snooping around in my room when I’m not here. Though I don’t really mind, there’s not much to find. But stay out of Mycroft’s room. Talk about inappropriate! Fucking hypocrite. Both of them, father and son. I hope Siger does take him along. I hope they both get the clap—

He stops, rubbing a hand over the cut on his forehead. It’s finally starting to coagulate, but his fingers still come away sticky. Sherrinford’s eyes go back to Sherlock, who has gone quiet. But his big pale eyes are close upon his brother’s face. Two mirrors that seem to reflect everything.

 **SHERRINFORD:** _Brave New World_ is about a handsome young man who lives on an Indian Reservation. You know what those are, you saw the exhibit at the British Museum. But John isn’t an Indian. His mother was from London, but Linda stayed on the reservation because she—well, she liked it there. One day, two people from London, Bernard and Lenina, come to the reservation and find John and Linda. They invite them back to the city.

But their London isn’t our London, Sherlock. This is London of the future. It’s rich and shining, a world of steel and glass. The streets and the buildings are clean, and the people who live there are happy. Because their science is like magic, everyone stays young and beautiful forever. 25th Century London is bloody _great_ —maybe we’ve even gotten MTV by then, you never know. “Everyone belongs to everyone else,” that’s a quote from the book. That means everyone is—well, they’re friends. There are no mothers and fathers or brothers and sisters, just friends.

 **SHERLOCK:** How sad.

 **SHERRINFORD:** No, it’s brilliant.   You can have lots of friends, as many as you like. Every night, you go out with a different one. You do all sorts of interesting things together.  
  
 **SHERLOCK:** What if you don’t want to?  
  
 **SHERRINFORD:** What?  
  
 **SHERLOCK:** What if you like one friend best? Can’t you just see him?  
  
 **SHERRINFORD:** No! That’s not how it works. Now do you want to hear the story or not?

Sherlock nods quickly, wrapping his arms around his knees, rocking a little with fascination.

 **SHERRINFORD:** Well, John does like Lenina best. That should please you. He also likes Bernard and Helmholtz—that’s another friend. They do lots of lovely things, but John is rather a wet blanket. He hates movies, he won’t go dancing, he won’t take _soma_ —that’s a kind of candy everyone likes. Lenina likes him too, but John won’t—well, let’s just say he won’t do everything Lenina wants to do. Finally, he and Lenina have a fight. John runs away and causes a ruckus, so he and Bernard and Helmholtz are hauled off to see Mustapha Mond. He’s the most powerful man in London—in the world, probably. It’s his job to keep everything in order.

 **SHERLOCK:** Like Daddy.

 **SHERRINFORD:** Christ, what has Mycroft been saying to you? Yes, I suppose Mustapha is like Siger. He certainly enjoys telling people what to do. He tells Bernard and Helmholtz that they can’t stay in London. They don’t fit anymore, you see. They’re not happy enough, and he’s afraid they’ll make other people unhappy. So he’s going to send them to an island, where they can be unhappy all they want. But John doesn’t get to go.

 **SHERLOCK:** Why not?

 **SHERRINFORD:** Because Mustapha Mond is the _villain_ , baby brother. He wants to keep John around so he can watch him and manipulate him, like a lab rat. John hates it, but there’s nothing he can do about it. He has to stay.

 **SHERLOCK:** Can’t he run away?  
  
 **SHERRINFORD:** He tries. He runs away from London, but he can’t get far enough. Mustapha and his people can still see him. They watch him all the time. John starts to go mad—he does so many strange things. That makes the people in London want to watch him all the more.  
  
 **SHERLOCK:** I thought you said they were nice.

 **SHERRINFORD:** They are nice, but like most people, they’re stupid. They don’t know what they’re doing to John. Well—Mustapha does, but he doesn’t care. Finally, Lenina comes to see John. She and the other people convince John to take soma and—and dance with them. John and Lenina dance all night long. When John wakes up the next morning, he realizes what this means. The manipulations have worked, John is _fitting in_. Mustapha has won. The evil old bastard will go on winning, as long as John stays in London. But how can you escape?   Where can you run that he won’t find you? (voice getting soft) There is no escape. Even the islands belong to him.

Sherrinford falls silent. Sherlock is silent too, but finally he can’t stand it.

 **SHERLOCK:** What happened to John? Did he get away from Mustapha?  
  
 **SHERRINFORD:** (after a pause) Yes. He did.

 **SHERLOCK:** How?  
  
 **SHERRINFORD:** You know what? This wasn’t the best idea. Why don’t I read you something from the D’Aulaires? I think we’d just gotten up to the chapter on Artemis. You’ll enjoy her. She’s like a sexy games mistress.

 **SHERLOCK:** No. Finish the story. Tell me what happened to John.

 **SHERRINFORD:** John—John! Is that all you think about? Fine. He died. The end.

 **SHERLOCK:** (eyes huge) What?

Sherrinford runs hands through his hair. There are dark circles under his eyes, a gash on his forehead. He already looked exhausted, even before story hour got going. Now he’s guilty, too.

 **SHERRINFORD:** I’m sorry, small one. John killed himself.

 **SHERLOCK:** (voice trembling) Why would he do that?  

 **SHERRINFORD:** Because he had no choice. That’s how it is, when your enemy is the most powerful man in the world.

 **SHERLOCK:** But—he could have lived. He could have stayed in London, and—

 **SHERRINFORD:** Be a slave? I don’t think so. John was the hero, Sherlock.

 **SHERLOCK:** (almost yelling) But that’s not fair!

 **SHERRINFORD:** I know, but—

 **SHERLOCK:** (really yelling) Change the story! _Make him not be dead!_  
  
 **SHERRINFORD** : I can’t do that. The story is what it—

He stops as Sherlock grabs the book and flings it at the already abused mirror. It hits with a tremendous thump, more glass raining down.

 **SHERRINFORD:** _Fuck_ , Sherlock. Don’t—

But Sherlock has leapt off the bed and run out the door. He crashes straight into Mycroft.

Sherlock throws his arms around Mycroft, pudgy and comforting in a brown plaid dressing gown. He buries his face in his brother’s stomach, sobbing.

 **MYCROFT:** Sherlock! What’s the matter?  
  
A few inarticulate grunts come, but mostly Sherlock just cries.  

 **MYCROFT:** All right. Off to bed. (at more grunts) Yes, I’ll stay with you. I promise. Go.

He disentangles Sherlock’s grip, sending him down the hall with a push. Mycroft’s eyes take in the mirror, the book, his older brother’s white and wounded face. He sighs, shaking his head.

 **SHERRINFORD:** Don’t start.

 **MYCROFT:** I’m not. I haven’t the strength. But I wish you would remember that whatever is going on between you and Father—between _us_ —it’s not Sherlock’s fault. Don’t take your anger out on him. He’s having a difficult time as it is.

 **SHERRINFORD:** Poor thing. Very difficult, not having a mum.

A brief spasm contorts Mycroft’s face, but he says nothing. Turning stiffly on one heel, he goes.

Sherrinford gets up. He kneels by the bookcase, picking up _Brave New World_. He puts it back on the shelf, next to a stack of _Cahiers du Cin_ _éma_. His fingers trace over a few small volumes standing nearby. He picks one up, looking at the author photo on the back cover. His mum’s photo. Longing washes over his face, but soon he puts it back on the shelf. Violet isn’t here.  

He picks up one big, wickedly pointed shard of glass from the floor. His face grows serious as he stares at it. He sees his face reflected in it, handsome but somehow naked without spectacles. It doesn’t seem like his own face.

He stays that way for a long time, considering the possibilities. Contemplating escape.

 

**CUT TO:**

**EXT. THE ROOF OF 19 CHAPEL STREET. THE NEXT EVENING.**

The rooftop of 19 Chapel Street is long and bare, grey with the dirt and soot of two centuries. At some point, long before local Councils gave a damn about historical preservation, the neighbors next door turned their roof into another room. This provides a convenient wall running down the left side of Number 19’s rooftop. Otherwise, the space is without enclosure, its sole boundary the empty air beyond the front edge, a four-story drop to the street below.

The boy who opens the trap door from the fourth floor is unfamiliar. We get a better look at him as he pulls himself up and onto the concrete, walking towards the front of the building. He’s 16 or so, small and slender, quick in his movements. Rays of late-day sun shine on his face, and we soon realize he’s very pretty. A heart-shaped face with high cheekbones, full lips and a straight nose. His origins are not Anglo-Saxon, or at least not strictly so. His unblemished skin is olive, his riot of curls is glossy black, and his eyes are exotically wonderful: large, long-lashed, a deep golden brown, and tilted slightly at the corners.

It’s a face from a Mughal painting, but the boy is dressed like any other English boy, in jeans and a t-shirt, dirty Reeboks on his feet. When he speaks, his voice is pure Estuary.

He doesn’t speak yet. He pauses halfway across the rooftop, looking at the figure standing close to the edge. Tall, extraordinarily thin, and dressed very much like himself: Sherrinford Holmes, smoking a joint and staring down at the traffic passing below. By the wall is a boombox, blaring music. It’s the music which makes the new boy pause. It’s definitely not The Cure. The speakers buzz with the force of the symphony, a joyful noise that’s also somehow menacing.

 **SHERRINFORD:** (without turning) Bijan. You’re late.

 **BIJAN:** Sorry. Dad had me deadheading the sodding roses. I’m knackered.

He takes a few steps closer, looking down at the boombox.

 **BIJAN:** What the hell?  


 **SHERRINFORD:** Beethoven’s 9 th Symphony.

 **BIJAN:** I thought you hated classical music. 

**SHERRINFORD:** Not this.

 **BIJAN:** Wait, I know this. The scene in _A_ _Clockwork Orange_ where Alex is wanking off in his room! Same music. (grins) You and your fucking Kubrick.

Sherrinford doesn’t reply. Bijan comes closer, until he’s standing beside him. He plucks at his friend’s wrist. Sherrinford passes him the joint and Bijan takes a drag, expelling the smoke with a grateful sigh. The boys are silent for a minute, the only sound Beethoven’s angel trumpets and devil trombones. The sky beyond is grey streaked with red, the sun an orange eye burning fierce, as if enraged at everything it sees.

Sherrinford is still looking down, his face turned away. Bijan puts a hand on his shoulder.

 **BIJAN:** All right, Ford?  
  
 **SHERRINFORD:** Do you know you’re the only one who calls me that?  
  
 **BIJAN:** (dropping his hand) Sorry.

 **SHERRINFORD:** No, I like it. I like how you say it.

 **BIJAN:** Um, okay. Hey, do you think we could give Beethoven a rest? I’ve got a new bootleg, my cousin made it at The Cure’s Cornwall gig last week. Bloody brilliant. They did a cover of “You Really Got Me,” it sounds a bit knackered because Ajit won’t buy a decent fucking tape recorder, but still—

He stops as Sherrinford turns to fully face him. The light is dimming quickly, but he can see the cut on that pale forehead, the bruising around it. More bruising lower down, on the cheekbone.

 **BIJAN:** _Shit._ What happened to you?  
  
 **SHERRINFORD:** Accident. Broke my specs. (blinking) I have contacts, but I don’t wear them much. They’re not very comfortable.

 **BIJAN:** Is that why your eyes are all red?  
  
 **SHERRINFORD:** (shrugs) Could be the weed. I’ve been up here a while.

He takes the joint back and inhales deeply. Exhales a double puff, wreathing them in smoke.   He takes another drag, but then Bijan snatches it away, grinding it under his heel.

 **BIJAN:**    Take it easy. You wanna kill every brain cell you’ve got?  
  
 **SHERRINFORD:** No. Just a select few.

He looks down at the street. He takes a step, the toes of his trainers right on the edge of the roof.

 **BIJAN:** Watch it! (pulls Sherrinford back) You’re gonna fall and hurt yourself.

 **SHERRINFORD:** It’s 42 feet to the ground. Forty-two exactly. Mycroft and I found the original plans once, when we were messing about in the basement. A fall of 30 feet or more isn’t hurtful. It’s fatal. Almost always.  

 **BIJAN:** All the more reason not to be bloody stupid!

 **SHERRINFORD:** Five thousand, four hundred and thirty-seven miles. That’s how far it is to L.A. Sydney’s even farther—10, 552 miles. So far it’s like another world. Mum knew what she was doing, but I’d rather go to L.A. All that steel and glass. Those happy, beautiful people. Oh brave new world . . .

 **BIJAN:** Ford, mate, you’re freaking me out a little.

 **SHERRINFORD:** He _let_ her go, she has to know it. She pissed him off but he had what he wanted. Three smart boys. The youngest was supposed to be a girl, but still—close enough. He doesn’t have what he wants from me. He wants everything, Bijan. I don’t know if 5000 miles is far enough. Maybe 10,000 wouldn’t be. But what about 42 feet?

Sherrinford steps towards the edge. Bijan grips him tight, pulling him back.

 **BIJAN:** Would you _stop_ it? What the hell is wrong with you? 

**SHERRINFORD:** I’m gay.

Bijan freezes. He stares at Sherrinford, eyes wide.  

 **SHERRINFORD:** I’ve never said it aloud. Didn’t let myself _think_ the words, even when I was looking at those magazines he didn’t find. But he knew. He’s given me a choice. I can do what he wants, or he’ll make me do it. Not a real choice at all, Siger’s never are. He’s going to cure me. He’s going to make me _fit in._

 **BIJAN:** What—what are you going to do?

Sherrinford smiles, a manic switchblade grin. He takes another step towards the edge. Bijan pulls him back again, his worry darkening to anger.

 **BIJAN:** Have you gone mental? You figure out you’re queer, and Daddy’s being a dick about it. So you’re gonna what? Top yourself? That’s a great plan, Ford. Real bloody genius. What am I supposed to be, your final fucking witness? Fuck you!  
  
He starts to go, but Sherrinford grabs his arm. Bijan pulls away with equal force, running for the trap door, but Sherrinford has a longer reach and a desperate amount of determination. He grips the neck of Bijan’s t-shirt and jerks him off-balance, spinning him around and pushing him into the neighbor’s wall. With his forearm, he pins Bijan against the bricks. Bijan struggles at first, but then, realizing it’s pointless, stills. The boys stay like that a moment, breathing hard.

 **SHERRINFORD:** You think I’d lure you here to see my grisly death? Who fucking does that?

 **BIJAN:** Then what _are_ you doing? Why am I here? 

Sherrinford kisses him. A fatally serious kiss, his hands on either side of Bijan’s face, his long body pushing the smaller boy into the bricks. Bijan stiffens at first, but that’s just the surprise. Soon enough he’s kissing back, gripping Sherrinford like he’s pulling him back from the ledge.  
  
After a while, Ford breaks the kiss. He grabs Bijan’s shirt and pulls it out of his jeans. Pushes it up, sliding his hand up that smooth brown chest, stopping with his hand resting on Bijan’s heart.

 **FORD:** Beating a mile a minute. It’s okay. Mine is too. Two sodding summers we’ve sat on this roof, smoking spliffs and bemoaning our backward country’s lack of music television. Just a laugh, just mates, just _bullshit_. I wanted you the second I saw you. You want me. I’ve always known, but I’ve been too stupid to do anything. Too scared. Well, _fuck_ scared. Fuck it forever.

He leans in, looking into Bijan’s eyes. His own are red but serious. Sober with determination.

 **FORD:** I’ve been here all day, considering options. Stood right on the edge sometimes, looking down. Thinking about my Uncle Evie and the journeys he took. In the end, he couldn’t even get out of his room. Too weak to make it 42 feet, left a mess all over the desk. Evie’s been dead 65 years, no living Holmes knew him. But we remember. I stood here today, smoking and crying and thinking about him. My eyes are fucking killing me. But now I know what I have to do. 

Bijan can’t seem to reply. His eyes stray to the roof’s edge.

 **FORD:** (impatiently) I’m not going to kill myself. _I’m_ not weak.

 **BIJAN:** Oh—good. But what—

He cuts off as Ford begins nuzzling him. He moans when Ford nips his ear. Then he stiffens.

 **BIJAN:** Shit. Your father—

 **FORD:** Gone. Business trip. Won’t be back for days. Just us boys here. Sherlock’s asleep and Mycroft—he has his magazines. Even if he realizes where I am, he won’t tell. Never again. He knows what will happen, and he’s not that fucking heartless. Not yet. When Siger gets back, I’ll apologize. He’ll see a dutiful, penitent son. He’ll see this because he wants to see it. He’ll think he’s cured me of all my foolishness. By the time he sees the truth, I’ll be gone. He can ruin my brother but he won’t ruin me. I know how to escape.

He starts slowly kissing his way down Bijan’s body.

 **BIJAN:** Oh, Jesus. Oh _fuck_.

 **FORD:** Exactly.

He stops when he’s on his knees, looking up at his friend. It’s dark now, and getting darker. The people passing below can’t see. If they could, it wouldn’t matter. This is London.

 **FORD:** Someone did die up here. That stupid kid is dead. And _I_ —I can’t be your boyfriend. Not ever. But I’ll be your friend, always. I’m sorry. I hope it’s enough.

Bijan’s fingers push Ford’s hair back from his face. They gently trace the bruise on his cheek. He says nothing, but the touch is enough. He closes his eyes, leaning his head against the wall.

Ford eases down the zipper of Bijan’s jeans.

We can’t see what he sees—the angle is wrong and the light is too dim. But we can see he looks calm. The total composure you feel, once you realize that you can do anything. Anything at all.

 **FORD:** (whispering) I’m cured, all right.

The music swells, Beethoven’s Ninth reaching a glorious climax. The camera pulls back, back, the boys growing smaller and smaller, until they’re lost in the darkness of London.

**FADE OUT  
**

**FIN**


	54. Chapter 54

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Though this chapter and the following one are placed after the return of Moriarty in Chapter 49 (which happened on Monday, January 7), they actually take place the previous evening (Sunday, January 6). These chapters happen more or less simultaneously with Chapters 44-47. Chapters 56-58 will pick up a few days later (on Friday, January 11).

** Neville, 6 January 2013  **

_Honey pie, you are making me crazy_  
 _I’m in love but I’m lazy_  
 _So won’t you please come home?_  
  
 _Honey pie, my position is tragic_  
 _Come and show me the magic_  
 _Of your Hollywood song_  
  
 _You became a legend of the silver screen_  
 _And now the thought of meeting you_  
 _Makes me weak in the knees._  
  
 _Honey pie, you are driving me frantic—_

“Oh fucking hell!” The iPod stereo has tipped over, Paul McCartney cutting off as my phone goes flying into the corner. I chase after it, dropping the laundry which caused the collision. 

I pick the phone up and dust it off, sighing in relief when I see that the screen isn’t cracked. I tap the screen to make sure everything is working. My recent text messages come up.

**Vanilla Black 7 PM? –FH**  
  
 **Not hungry. Hate vegan. –NS**

**That’s a yes then? –FH**

**No. Not eating sticks and guppies and paying 80 quid for the privilege –NS**

**Vegan doesn’t include fish. I’ll be paying. –FH**  
  
 **f’ing hell just come to mine at 8. Address follows –NS**

**Have addy. L8RG8R – FH**

Just like that, I made a fuck date with Ford Huxley. No romance, no waiting, just straight-up shagging. The refusal of the dinner invitation made my agenda clear. In some cases I might have worried about feelings being hurt—this isn’t a Grindr hook-up, where you can seal the deal in 20 characters. I’ve actually met Ford. Because I’ve met him, I don’t worry about his feelings.  

“What feelings?” I mutter, carefully replacing my phone in the stereo. I skip to another playlist: “Honey Pie” is fab—who doesn’t love _The White Album_? But right now I’m not in the mood. I scroll until I hit George Michael. As soon as I hear the opening notes of “Fastlove,” I feel better.  It motivates me to start picking up the scattered underpants.

Before making the aforementioned assignation, I should have taken stock of the state of my flat. Ordinarily I would have—even a Grindr trick deserves a clean toilet. But it’s been a busy week, with Sherlock rising from the dead and all. I wasn’t even planning to get laid this weekend. All my time has been taken up encouraging John to do so, questionable as his taste in men might be. Yes, I realize the irony of that last statement, but I’m not planning on marrying a Holmes. I can’t imagine what it would be like, though the word _Kafkaesque_ comes to mind.

I dump the clothes into the closet and look around. The bed is made up with clean sheets; My pillowcases even match, which is a first. Ford Huxley is a smug bastard, but five Oscars merit certain considerations. Supplies are in the nightstand: two boxes of condoms, fine, a half-bottle of lube, hmm. It will probably do. Ford can’t be _that_ well-hung, can he?

I blink away the mental images this conjures and survey the flat again. You can’t beat the cool factor of a loft, but the problem with living in what’s essentially a giant room is that you can see the crap from every angle. The bed has a bit of privacy, tucked away behind big white Expedit room dividers, but everything else is there in the open. The kitchen’s all right because I don’t cook, but the lounge is a sodding mess. It was a mess when I had John over last night, but John doesn’t care if there’s shit everywhere. My sofa is missing five buttons and lacks throw pillows, but John sat on it anyway. Did more than that, actually, but we’ll draw a veil over the snogging.

John never judges me, and I love him for it. But Ford Huxley will, and though I don’t want him to love me I do want him to shag me, so I suppose I’d better suck it up and clean the lounge.

After I’ve thrown out half the papers and stacked all the books in various Expedit cubes, I start picking up the Blu-ray cases scattered around. I don’t own many movies—who has time to see something twice? But the ones I do own seem to have all escaped the drawer of the TV stand.

When I open the drawer I see it. A film I haven’t watched in a while, but I put it on about once a year. _Brave New World._ Not Ford Huxley’s first film, but the one which made him famous. He scored his first Oscar for the screenplay, and it was well-deserved: funny and tragic, cynical but somehow sympathetic. He turned a chill morality tale into something human. Devastating.

There was also all the sex, which was groundbreaking as well as hot. Things have changed so much in the last ten years; it’s easy to forget what giant brass balls it took to show omnivorous fucking in a major studio release back in 2000. Still larger ones must have been required to push the girl-on-girl and boy-on-boy past the MPAA.

You can’t mistake the artist for the art. I love Ford Huxley’s movie, but I’m less crazy about the man himself. So why did I invite him over? I’ve learned after five years of being single that you don’t have to like someone to have a great shag. But that’s not the real reason. As Mallory said about Everest, Ford is _there_.   Tall, cold, and unpredictable, but I’m going to climb him.

I close the TV stand and head for the bath. That toilet still wants scrubbing.

I quickly dispatch the toilet, sink, and floor, and can finally start on my own ablutions. I keep it simple, shit/shower/shave: Ford is the one who hit on me, so he must like the basic package. I do experience one moment of insanity, but then decide that the razor isn’t going anywhere near my crotch. The boys in L.A. may be as smooth as my daughter’s dolls, but this is London. If I want to subject my balls to that sort of abuse, I’ll go to those clubs in Vauxhall.

I slap moisturizer on my freshly shaved face instead.   I pause a moment, examining myself. I don’t look nervous, which is logical, because I’m not. I look fine, everything like it always is: too much hair, too much eyes, good cheekbones and a straightish nose. The mouth is the best feature, though I wish it were a touch less red. Always looks like I’ve been sucking on a lolly, which would work if I were a female or an 18-year-old twink, but on a man of 32 it’s too cutesy.

It’s not like cute doesn’t work for me. I shag just about anybody I try to shag, though a lot of that’s charm and the ability to read people. Most blokes wouldn’t have tried to pull John in the pub that night—he looked sad and straight, not a fair prospect. _I_ wasn’t sure at first, but after my third orgasm at his capable hands, it occurred to me once again how deceiving surfaces can be.

I’m brushed and dressed, bopping along to “Too Funky” while I sit on the bed inspecting socks, when the phone rings. I cross the room, frowning when I see the name onscreen. It’s not that I don’t love her. But when you’re gearing up for hot sex with Ford Huxley, and you’re not sure if you have two black socks or one black/one navy, chatting with Mum is cognitively dissonant.

But she’s my mum. I pick up.

“I’m sorry, darling. It’s happened again.”

I try to keep my voice even.

“Tell me you didn’t disable the firewall.”

“It wouldn’t let me play any of my games!”  
  
“Because those games are evil. I’ve told you, if you want to play _Bejeweled_ that bloody badly, I’ll get you a CD-ROM.”  
  
“And pay all that money when it’s available for free?”  
  
“It’s not free. Those clones stuff your computer full of malware. Christ, we’ve been over this.”  
  
“Don’t blaspheme. And don’t talk to me like I’m stupid, Neville Andrew. I even downloaded a free PC Cleaner—”

“You did _what?”_  
  
“You said I needed anti-virus software!”  
  
“Which is why I installed Norton on your computer.”

“Oh, that slowed it down too much. And this was free.”  
  
“ _Because it’s malware_.” I hear myself getting shrill and stop, taking a breath. “Look, just shut the computer down. I’ll take a look at it the next time I get over there. Probably Wednesday.”

“You can’t come tonight?”  
  
“Not tonight. I have plans.”  
  
A pause. “With a man?”  
  
I hear the cold note in my mother’s usually warm and loving voice. The one that’s been there since my divorce. I stare at the calm white walls for three seconds before answering.

“Yes. With a man.”  
  
Mum sighs. “I saw Lydia Cooper at church last week. Haven’t seen her in ages, not since her Bill got transferred to Leeds. She was visiting her sister, and she asked about you. She was at the wedding, remember? She said you and Angie were the loveliest couple she ever saw. I—I didn’t know what to say. I never know what to tell people.”  
  
“Tell them we split up. It happens all the time.”  
  
“I don’t know why you two couldn’t work it out. You _were_ so lovely, and Sophie—”

 _Because I’m gay, Mum. As the proverbial maypole._ I don’t say it, though I have in the past. She’s already upset. “Angie’s happy with Nigel. Especially now that they’re expecting—”

My mother gives a little gasp. I bite my lip, silently cursing. Why the hell hasn’t Angie said? Sophie’s at her grandmum’s at least once a month.

“I didn’t know.” Mum sounds near tears. “I noticed Angie had put on a bit of weight, but I just thought—she’s not getting any younger, is she?”  
  
“None of us are. Look, I’m really sorry, but I have to go.”

“Don’t you want to talk to your dad? You know he’s not feeling well.”  
  
Fuck me. That’s all I fucking need. “Tomorrow, okay? I’ll stop by.”  
  
“If I have any more trouble with the computer, can I call you?”  
  
 _“Don’t_ use the computer. Use the Kindle. Such a nice gift from David, and you never touch it.”  
  
“I don’t know how to work that ruddy thing.”  
  
“It’s a touchscreen. Couldn’t be simpler. I’ll show you tomorrow, all right? In the meantime, watch telly or something. Tell Dad I hope he feels better.”  
  
I ring off. Quite deliberately, I turn the mobile off and put it on the desk. If I don’t she’ll keep calling, though she knows it’s interrupting my date. She’ll do it _because_ it’s interrupting.  

I dig my iPod out of the desk drawer and put it in the stereo dock. I bring up George Michael again. The melancholy piano of “Kissing a Fool” comes on, and I go back to examining socks.

They’re both black. I slip them on and bounce on the bed, considering. It’s nearly 8 o’clock, but Huxley won’t be on time. How to while away the minutes? The flat is clean, I’ve already eaten and there isn’t time for a wank. I could go online, but after this week that just feels like work.

I can’t ring John. He and Sherlock are having it out or having it off, and either way they won’t appreciate interruptions. Unlike Mum, I know when I’m not wanted.

She loves me, I know that. She tells me all the time. Dad does too, though his love manifests in close questioning about my retirement planning and the occasional help with a leaky faucet. I’m not the son they wanted—that’s David—but they’ve been as understanding as two people of their generation could be about my divorce, and its cause. It helps that they never knew the true scope of what happened. Though once, at our lowest point, Angie threatened to send them the pictures. All the ones from the PI she hired, when she thought I was just having a garden-variety affair.

She hired a Denis Bradstreet, young and energetic, foxy in a lean and hungry way. That must have been useful when he was trailing me, getting behind the velvet ropes and into all of those back rooms. It didn’t take a week for him to put together the whole sordid story.

Infidelity, yes. But not one affair. Dozens, all over London. And not with women.

 _I guess you were kissing a fool  
You must have been kissing a fool_

Right, George. Though I’m not sure who the real fool was, me or Angie. I did love her, but love isn’t always enough. I’ve known what I am since I was 20. I never should have married her, but it’s hard to totally regret what happened. Not when there’s Sophie, who’s worth any tribulation.

The song ends in a flourish. A pause, and then comes cool, dark jazz with an oriental flavor: “Father Figure,” George Michael’s gorgeous voice throbbing with desire so intense it’s pain.

There’s a knock at the door.

I give my hair a last comb with my fingers. (It doesn’t do much good—a garden rake wouldn’t.) I wait ten seconds. No point looking _too_ bloody eager. Then I rise and open the door.

Of course, he’s wearing Cavalli.  

The distressed black jeans are Cavalli _pret a porter_. The black boots are Prada. They match the jacket: Belstaff, probably, and holy fuck you could lick that leather like it’s licorice. Under the jacket are two more layers, and we’re back to Cavalli. First, a grey wool sweater with a zipper down the front. Then a long-sleeved t-shirt, peacock blue, the fabric as thin as a waking dream. To finish, a black silk scarf with grinning skulls—McQueen is doing such cheeky things with accessories. Just a bit of jewelry, a cuff of braided leather, its clasp two silver lions kissing.

Three thousand quid at least. But the clever thing about the outfit is it doesn’t look like it cost that much. Ford doesn’t look like he’s trying too hard, and he isn’t. What he’s wearing isn’t very different from my own jeans and jumper. These are clothes you can leave crumpled on the floor for hours, and still look put-together when you’re doing the walk of shame at dawn.

He also looks hot as fuck. A hint of rough trade in the jacket and boots, but the sweater and t-shirt are so soft. The shirt brings out his eyes, turning smoky grey to sea blue. The silver in the cuff echoes the streaks in his dark hair. The grinning skulls are like his grin, cheeky and white.

It’s getting cheekier by the second. I’ve been staring too long.

“You’re on time,” I say, and inwardly cringe. That sounded too eager. So much for waiting.

Ford cocks his head. “Was I supposed to be late?”  
  
“You were late yesterday.”  

“Oh, that. The cabbie mistook me for an American and went the long way to Baker Street. I wouldn’t have minded, but the cab smelled like kebabs and b. o. I wasn’t going to tip him, but he has six children by three different women. You can’t blame him for a little sweaty larceny. Do you mind? I’m freezing my ass off. London in January, what the hell was I thinking?”  
  
Ford has brushed past me into the flat while he’s saying that last bit, blowing on his gloveless hands. Once he’s thawed, he stops by the coat rack and removes his scarf but not the jacket. He turns towards the main living area, eyes sweeping the flat with a focus that’s familiar.

“How did you know about the cab driver’s family?” I say, closing the door.

“He told me. Who do you think I am, Sherlock? I can talk to people.”

Ford has made his way further into the room, looking around again. I try to see the room as he would see it, in a series of perfectly framed shots. The bed with its paisley spread, peeking out from behind room dividers, those white cubes stuffed with too many books. Turn, and you see the flatscreen TV balanced on a laminate stand. It’s centered in front of the Chesterfield. To the right of the telly is a white three-door wardrobe. To the left is the door to the bath, partly open.

Turn again and note the desk, a long glass rectangle balanced on two metal file cabinets. Your eyes linger for a moment on the giant poster that’s hung over the desk, between the two arched windows. The lower half of a man’s face, seamed and stubbled, lips twisted in a sneer. It and the Magritte over the bed are the only pictures relieving the starkness of the tall white walls.

Turn one more time and see the kitchen, nicely updated with stainless steel appliances and wood worktops. The worktops are bare except for a toaster and an electric kettle. A couple of wooden stools in front of the breakfast bar take the place of a dining table. One last turn, and you’re back to the front door. Now you’ve seen it all. Such as it is.

“I work a lot,” I say, and wonder why I’m apologizing.

“I like it,” Ford says. “I’ve never understood how my brothers tolerate all that dusty Victoriana. I’d go crazy in a week. My place in L.A. is minimalist, too.”  
  
“I doubt your furniture is from IKEA.”  
  
“There’s nothing wrong with IKEA.” Ford traces a finger down one of the Expedit cubes. “I had something a lot like this in my dorm at UCLA. The first piece of furniture I ever bought. You have no idea how thrilling it was.”

It’s hard to imagine Ford as a teenager, thrilled by cheap Swedish furniture. I bought everything here but the Chesterfield on a single spree five years ago. I didn’t have the proverbial pot when I moved in: Angie kept everything. David gave me the sofa from his office and helped me put all of the flatpacks together, good brother that he is. He also wanted me out of his house, and I don’t blame him. I was upsetting his kids, wandering around pissed and weepy in nothing but pants.

I remember then, Ford’s boyhood room as I saw it this afternoon. Old, scratched furniture and faded silk wallpaper. The paper was almost obliterated by the riot of posters. Something so sad about the room. Desperate, even, trying to make that desolate space into something bright and modern. I remember the picture I saw on the bookcase. _Now_ I can see teenage Ford, skinny and bespectacled. Still heartbreakingly beautiful, even with ‘80s bangs. Still brilliant, you could see it in his eyes. His gaze was softer then. The boy was softer. He was someone you could talk to.

I look up. Ford is watching me closely. I feel myself color.

“You okay?” he says.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You look tense.”  
  
“Why would I be tense?”  
  
“I can think of a few reasons.” He’s smiling, which only makes it worse.

 _“I’m not tense.”_ Shrill, Nev. That’s you, getting shrill. Cool the fuck out.

Ford rolls his eyes. He strides purposefully over to the Chesterfield and sits down. He shrugs his leather jacket off, and I see him reach inside it. But I can’t see what else he’s doing, because his back is to me. Then he looks over his shoulder, jerking his head in a _come here_ gesture.

I follow, sighing loudly. I realize that I’m being ungracious. I’m nicer than this to Grindr tricks. I’m nice, period. Charming, when I’m pulling strangers in pubs. Though I only met Ford a day ago, you can’t call him a stranger. What’s wrong with me tonight?

I plop on the sofa, slouching in the corner. Then I lean forward, staring. “What are you doing?”

Ford doesn’t answer. It was a dumb question, I admit. What he’s doing is rolling a giant joint on the sofa table, using the papers and marijuana he took out of his jacket.

“How did you get that through customs?”  
  
“Please. Even if I wanted a Taser shoved up my ass, I’d rather it wasn’t courtesy of the TSA.” Ford licks the rolling paper. “I had coffee in London with an old friend. He laid this on me.”  
  
I glance at the bag on the table. There’s an ounce there, easily. “Nice friend.”  
  
“Bijan’s a doll. I still feel guilty about getting him fired that one time.”  
  
“How do you get fired from being a drug dealer?”

Ford gives me a look. “He’s a research botanist with a doctorate from the University of Reading. Better educated than you or me, honey. Jan grows hybrid organic weed for fun. I was going to bring over a bottle of Pinot, but then I realized you’d like this better.”

I scrub hands through my hair. “Fucking hell. Do you have a secret file on me or something?”

“Yes, I have a file. It’s called Google. If you don’t want people knowing about your fondness for cannabis, don’t post so many blog entries about decriminalization.” He gives the joint one last, expert twist and hands it to me. “Here, spark up. Before you jump right out of your skin, and I have to scrape you off this lovely vintage Chesterfield.”  
  
I narrow my eyes at him, but take the joint and the very nice silver Zippo lighter he’s held out. Then I stop, considering. A thought occurs to me, along with a certain heaviness in my chest. “We were supposed to do work this evening, weren’t we? John and Sherlock need our help.”  
  
Ford shrugs. “Tomorrow morning, write a blog entry telling everyone that John and Sherlock hired a surrogate. I’ll e-mail you some cute pictures of Nero I took today, when that juicy nanny of his came bouncing into the kitchen with him. Post the entry and a photo. The fans will be in such paroxysms over seeing the blessed offspring, they’ll forget about Sherlock’s shenanigans. If they remember, post another photo. Lather, rinse, repeat.”

I consider this. “No tiny deerstalker?”

“Eventually, maybe. They haven’t earned the deerstalker yet. If you really want to write out that bullshit story we came up with, go ahead. But post in installments. Make ‘em wait for it, they’ll love it. Come on, you’re no newbie. You know how social media works.”

I nod, and light up. I take a deep double lungful of smoke and hold it for a moment. Then I let it slowly out, flushing and grinning. Bijan grows great fucking weed. I take another drag, feeling the hot knot of tension that has been behind my eyes all day start to loosen. (Damn it, Ford was right.) There’s a warm feeling in my chest, like happy sparkly bees are buzzing around my heart.

I hand him the paraphernalia. Ford gives me a smug look. “Bijan’s a fucking genius.”

I cough and clear my throat. “You’ll have to give me his number.”  
  
“I told you, he doesn’t sell weed. He doesn’t even give it very often. It _is_ illegal.”       
  
“Why did he give it to you?”  
  
Ford takes a long, deep drag on the joint. He lets it out, closing his eyes. It takes him a moment to open them.   “Because he thought my baby brother had committed suicide. That’s not what he said, of course. Jan isn’t so crass. But I knew what he meant.” 

His tone is what it always is: friendly if slightly sardonic. He doesn’t look bothered by the fact that his brother faked his death. He must have been bothered, though. I remember his tears in Sherlock’s bedroom yesterday when he discovered the truth. Ford Huxley does have feelings, I suppose. It occurs to me that I really don’t know much about the man, for all the articles I’ve read and the director’s commentaries I’ve listened to. It’s not like you can trust Wikipedia.

“Bijan knows that Sherlock’s your brother.”

“Sure. When he saw the news today he was gobsmacked. Too bad, I told him he’s not getting his weed back.” Ford smirks and takes another hit off the joint.

“You’ve known each other a long time, then.”  
  
“A very long time, but we’ve kept in touch. He and his husband have a picturesque pile of bricks in Oxfordshire. Very Howards End. Francis is adorable: He looks just like David Tennant. Jan always did have a thing for skinny white boys with glasses.”

He passes the joint back and I take it, slowly. “That’s nice, when you can be friends with an ex.”

“Ex what? Jan’s always been a good friend. One of the few truly nice human beings I ever met. He was even nice to my brothers, and that’s no mean feat. Mycroft looked straight through him, and Sherlock—” Ford shakes his head. “He was Sherlock.”  
  
I spark the Zippo, taking a thoughtful drag. The warmth in my chest increases, bees fuzzing and buzzing. I’m clearheaded enough to be curious, though. “He’s always been like that, then?”

“No, he was worse. At least nowadays he talks to people, though it’s usually something nasty, if John’s blog is to be believed. But when he was a kid—you’re minding your business, reading a book, and there he is peeking over the pages. Doesn’t say a word, just stares. You’re on the loo, and suddenly you feel _eyes_. Look up and there’s Sherlock, watching. Forget about wanking off during daylight hours. Even when he did talk, you had to be so careful. Say the wrong thing and he’d be off in hysterics. Didn’t get much better when he got older. He lived with me for a while in L.A., and it was one thing after another. I spent two years pissing on fires.   Never again.”

Ford’s snatches the Zippo back and takes a hit.

“You sound like you don’t like him very much.”  
  
“I love my little brother. He’s fucking brilliant. But he’s also the drama queen to end all drama queens. That’s why I’ve mostly let Mycroft deal with him. Sherlock loves to make messes, and Mycroft loves to tidy up. It’s perfect.”

“John does most of the caretaking these days.”

“John’s a classic co-dependent. I don’t care, but I wish he and Sherlock would quit dragging the world into their drama. All of this bullshit could have been prevented with a single proposition. _Fancy a shag, John?_ _All right, Sherlock._ What’s so hard about that?”

“A shag wouldn’t have stopped Jim Moriarty.”

Ford rolls his eyes. “Moriarty’s an actor. Trust me, he can’t be that much of an evil genius.”

“But given his fixation on your brother, I’m not sure what Sherlock and John could have done.”

“Two bullets in the back of the head. Maybe a dose of poison to soften him up first.” When I stare:   “Just kidding. Sherlock will sort out Moriarty eventually. If he’s really smart, he’ll let Mycroft sort him. That’s his job.”

“What exactly _is_ Mycroft’s job? I’ve heard conflicting stories.”  
  
“Mostly paperwork, to hear him complain.”  
  
“That’s not what I’ve heard. I’ve heard he’s—dangerous.”

“Only if you’re a treacle tart.”

Ford hands the joint back to me, but I’m not so easily distracted.   “You said he could deal with Moriarty.   He’d have to be dangerous, if he could—”

“I’m tired of talking about my brothers,” Ford says. “One’s a hysterical child and one’s a bloody old woman. They’re really not that interesting.” He gives me a grin. “There’s just one fabulous monster in the family, and he’s sitting right in front of you.”  

I want to pursue my line of questioning further, but I’ve been doing this sort of thing for a while. Ford’s tone is friendly as can be, but his eyes have gone hard. I know when a font of information has dried up. I sigh, and the sound is loud in the silence. I realize the stereo has stopped.

I rise and go to the stereo table near the desk. I scroll through iTunes playlists.   “Any requests?”  
  
“I don’t care. You can put on the Beatles if you want.” When I turn and raise an eyebrow at him:   “Do you have any idea how many of your blog entries contain Beatles lyrics? I’m surprised you haven’t gotten a DMCA notice from Apple Records.”

I don’t dignify this, turning back to the iPod. I select _Magical Mystery Tour_ , and soon the song of the same name comes blaring from the Bose’s powerful speakers.

I come back to the sofa and sit down. I take one last hit on the joint. Four hits total, and that’s enough. I don’t want to get so stoned that I don’t know what I’m doing. Best to keep your wits around a fabulous monster. I give everything back to Ford.

He stubs out the joint in the ashtray. He puts the lighter and the bag of weed in the jacket he’s laid on the table. He unzips his sweater and lays it on top of the jacket. Just the tight blue t-shirt on his upper half now, that tissue-thin fabric caressing his broad shoulders and outlining his pecs and abs. They have the kind of definition you only get with strict nutrition, punishing exercise, and, possibly, some sort of virgin sacrifice. If you didn’t know his real age, you’d take him for ten years younger. (He was 43 last August—is anybody shocked he’s a Leo?) Even the silver streaks in his hair look more like a daring experiment with highlights rather than signs of aging.

Maybe it isn’t diet and exercise. Maybe the plastic surgeons in Los Angeles really are that good. Or maybe Ford is an alien. _Of course_ he’s that: He’s a Holmes. I wonder what it’s like on their planet. I bet it’s very cold and you have to do a lot of math. I don’t want to go there, even if all the men are bendy with big cocks. That’s just how they distract you. Before they eat you.

Shit, I’m stoned. I lean my head back, closing my eyes and trying to focus. I hear the springs creak as Ford moves closer. He’s close enough that I can smell his cologne. Lemon, ginger and something spicier. Cedarwood, maybe. A classic scent, one you could find on a man in a Savile Row suit, occupying a wing chair in an exclusive club somewhere. Mycroft Holmes could wear this cologne, but I bet it wouldn’t smell the same on him. Ford transforms it, making classic and courtly into something dark. It gets right up your nose, assailing your senses like a prowling cat.

We’re silent a few minutes. It should be an uncomfortable silence, the way all silences are when you don’t know someone well. First dates are exhausting that way, trying to fill the pauses with charming bullshit. I don’t date anymore; Grindr is so much simpler.

This isn’t a date, and it’s not uncomfortable. I’m comfortable, head buzzing pleasantly. Even the song that’s now playing, one of McCartney’s saddest, just seems charmingly melancholy.

_But the fool on the hill_  
 _Sees the sun going down_  
 _And the eyes in his head_  
 _See the world spinning ‘round_

Hey, I did use these lyrics last week. Blog post about Prince Charles and his latest ineffectual attempt to rule. Badgering David Cameron during secret cabinet meetings. Bloody old fossil.

“I saw that post,” Ford says. “Fucking vicious, and I mean that as a compliment.”  
  
I blink as I realize I said those last few sentences aloud. I let my head fall to the right, so I can see Ford. “How much of my blog have you read?”  
  
“All of it,” Ford says. “Right up to this morning.”

This morning’s post was the one about Ford and Stanley Kubrick. Edited and updated, but still very similar to the one he almost sued me over a couple of years ago. I put it up at 3 AM, and it seemed really funny. I should know better than to post when I’m drunk. I might have thought better of it today, but I got distracted by Sherlock and John’s YouTube debut.

“Interesting insights on _Heart of Darkness_. I’m glad you liked it. A lot of the critics didn’t.” 

“It’s just misunderstood,” I say slowly. “Like I said in the blog, I think it will gain ground as time goes on. As for the other stuff I said—” I stop, picking nervously at a sofa button. “I’m not a film professor. It’s just a theory.”

Ford doesn’t reply. This silence _is_ uncomfortable. It’s one thing to rattle on about a Hollywood director you’ve never met. Except once, on a red carpet six years ago, but that hardly counts. It’s something else to have him right next to you, those long legs of his on your sofa table.

 _Ford Huxley is sitting on my Chesterfield_.  See him at a distance on the red carpet, look at 1000 pictures online, but you can’t know his true impact unless you get close to him. Online you see the symmetry of his face but you don’t see his aura, that ineffable something the French call _je ne sais quoi_ and the Americans call star quality. When he came into the café yesterday, he was so beautiful. It made me angry, how beautiful he was.    

He’s every bit as beautiful now. Maybe more, because he’s not busy trying to bulldoze John Watson into giving him screenrights. He’s here, and we’re all alone on a snowy Sunday. He’s beautiful, and I’m not angry. I’m flushed and sweating, but maybe that’s the weed.

I shake my head, trying to clear it. “Ford, I didn’t mean—I _like_ your movies. They’re—” _Beautiful. Brilliant. Like being inside another world. A dangerous place of fabulous monsters. Your movies are_ you _, Ford. That’s what I should have written about. But I didn’t know._

“I like your movies,” I repeat lamely.

He squeezes my shoulder, caressing the bare skin under the neck of my jumper. “I know.”  
  
“The Kubrick influence—it’s there but I didn’t mean to imply that you’re just—just imitating. _Brave New World_ , you use a lot of one-point perspective and there’s all of the Beethoven, and that’s rather like _A Clockwork Orange_ but it’s not _Clockwork Orange_ —”

Shit, I’m babbling. I take a breath. “You know what I mean.”  
  
“Uh-huh.” Ford reaches up, tucking a sweaty lock of hair behind my ear. “You said Kubrick is a major influence on my work. That’s true. You said my tracking shots and frequent inclusion of signs, book passages, and other verbal cues is reminiscent of Godard. Also true. You said my films betray a near-Freudian rage with castrating father figures. Not true, and presumptuous, but I forgive you. You used film clips which violate the Digital Millennium Copyright Act. You’re infringing on my rights and those of the Weinstein Company. That _is_ a problem.”

His long fingers are stroking my neck like he’s looking for a pulse point. It takes me a moment to collect myself. “Fair use—”  
  
“Doesn’t apply if it’s for-profit proposition, like your blog. You know that. You knew it two years ago when you pulled the post. Now it’s back up, because clever little Nev thinks that I won’t sue.” His thumb presses down on my jugular. It hurts, and I gasp. But I don’t move.

“You won’t sue,” I whisper.

Ford leans so close that I can see the true color of his eyes, grey with jagged streaks of white. Storm clouds and lightning. His scent is making me dizzy, spicy lemon with something dark underneath. The essential truth of the man.

“No,” he says. “What am I going to do with you?”  
  
I swallow hard, feeling his fingers on my throat. “Anything you want.”  
  
“Exactly,” he says, and kisses me.

 _This is how they do it on his planet._ They get you baked and scare you shitless and then, when you’re distracted, they strike. They kiss you, hard but somehow soft at the same time, his clever tongue plundering your mouth, and it’s lovely. He tastes like green weed and spicy lemon and though his hands are holding your face, it’s like he still has you by the throat. You can’t talk, you hardly breathe, as he pushes you back on the sofa, his long body pinning you down on the soft leather. You feel the hard muscles in his arms, you feel his hard cock against your hip, you feel sharp teeth biting your throat. You gasp and moan, grinding into him.

How did he know? That this is just what you wanted, that you’d fucking love it when he pounced like a lion, getting his teeth in you hard, harder. _You’re_ hard, you have been since he put his hand on your neck and started squeezing. He can do it again if he wants. He can do anything.

Ford pulls my jumper off. A chill from the cool air of the loft, soon assuaged as he pulls off his own shirt and presses against me. The slide of skin is delicious, but it’s not enough. I grab his face and pull him down, not a sexy kiss because it’s too desperate, teeth clicking against teeth. But somehow it _is_ sexy, the sheer animal need of it. I push him away, but just so I can yank his belt open and get at his fly. If I don’t touch his cock in five seconds I swear I’m gonna—fuck yes there it is he’s smooth and long and _shit_ he’s big, do I have enough lube not sure don’t care, I’m gonna feel him taste him suck him he has no idea how long I’ve dreamed about this—

I could scream when he grips my wrist. “Hey, slow down. We have all night.”

He has no idea. No fucking idea _at all_. I glare up at him, and I’m way too overheated to guess what I look like but it must be kind of scary, because he blinks and takes his hand away.    

“Or,” he says, “you could, you know, just keep doing—oh, _fuck.”_  
  
That thing I just did with my hand? There’s more where that came from, honey. I’ve been doing this since I was 20. I’ve done it a _lot._

I do it again, and he moans. His jeans and pants are halfway down his hips, his cock swelling under my ministrations. It’s long and thick and beautiful, silky pink with blue ribbons of veins. The head is even pinker as it strains out of its foreskin. He’s totally hard, totally intimidating, unless you’ve done this as much as I have. Even if you have—oh, I’m gonna be sore tomorrow. I may never be the same again. John and I will have to form a support group.

 _Don’t care._ _Worth it_ , I think as I trace one throbbing vein with my thumb. The head of his cock is glossy with precum, as thick and clear as sugar syrup but I know the flavor will be even better. Darker. Suddenly touching him isn’t enough. I have to taste him.

I let him go, scooting out from under. “Lay down,” I say. “Pull your jeans down. Pants too.”

He does, lips turning up at my sudden bossiness. But those grey eyes are burning into me. They watch me like I'm prey as I climb on top of him, but they won’t be watching long. He won’t be able to bear it, keeping his eyes open. He may be the alien, but he’s the one who’s going to get eaten. He’s going to taste salty and good.

I lick my lips. I bend my head, licking slowly around the head of his cock. Ford was right. No need to rush. (Though he won’t last three minutes. He _won’t.)_ We have hours. We have all—

I jerk as someone knocks at the front door. I shake it off, refocusing and bending my head again, but Ford puts a protective hand over his crotch. Really, I didn’t come that close to biting him.

“Shouldn’t you get that?”  
  
“One of my many admirers. Ignore it. He’ll go away.” It’s probably Stuart from the Disney Store. I’m going to have to change my mobile number again.  
  
Ford takes his hand away, albeit reluctantly. He’s less reluctant in a second, as I suck the head of his cock between my lips. More knocks come, but I expect the interruption and don’t flinch. I suck Ford in deeper. He tastes even better than I imagined, and I’ve imagined quite a—

KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!  
  
I jerk back, and this time I do nip a bit of tender flesh. Ford hisses. He sits up so quickly, he tumbles me to the floor. “Get the fucking door,” he says. “Tell him to fuck off.”

But Ford didn’t have to give orders. I already know I have to answer it. With a heavy feeling that mostly kills my erection, I know. Because there’s only one person who would knock like that, so loudly and persistently at half-past eight on a Sunday evening.

I shake my head hard, trying to shake away the drug-and-shag haze. I grab my jumper from the floor and pull it over my head. Running hands through my hair, I rise and race across the room.

KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!

Only one person has the balls to knock like that. Or the ovaries, rather. But I can’t tell her to fuck off. For dozens of reasons that are really one reason, I can’t.

I lean my forehead against the door for a second. Then I open it.

“Hey, Angie.”

Mum was right, Angie is lovely. I’ve always thought so, since Mrs. Peabody sat her next to me on the first day of Year 1. A green-eyed ginger girl with skin like cream, she grew into an even lovelier woman. By Year 8 she could have had anyone. Poor thing, she picked me. Even quite pregnant with Nigel’s square-headed baby, she’s adorable in her high-waisted houndstooth coat, red tights and kicky boots. Or she would be, if those delicate features weren’t twisted with rage.  

“Do you not answer your phone?” she snaps. “I’ve been ringing and ringing.”  
  
“Sorry. I turned it off for a bit. My mum— 

“Oh, spare me the excuses! I know what you’re up to.”

Angie pushes past me, boots stomping. She looks directly at the bed and finding it blameless, spins to the right. She sees Ford on the Chesterfield, shirtless and disheveled, and nods grimly.

“It’s the Sabbath, Nev. Don’t you ever take a day of rest?”

The man on the sofa gives a little wave. “Hi. I’m Ford.”  
  
“I don’t care,” she says.

Ford grins. “Has anyone ever told you that you look like Karen Gillan?”

“If I had a bloody TARDIS, I’d go back and warn myself about him.” She jerks her chin at me.

I sigh. “What’s going on, Ang? Why are you here?”  
  
“Nigel’s mum had a stroke. He’s waiting in the car with Sophie. We have to go to Manchester.”  
  
“Oh. That’s awful. Do you want me to look after Sarge?”  
  
“Forget about the damn moggie! Phoebe could be dying. We’ll be spending tonight in the ICU. Do you think that’s any proper place for a seven-year-old?”  
  
Fuckity-fuck. I scrub hands down my face. “I could ring Mum—”

I stop, seeing her expression. It’s not the same look she gave me when I crept into the kitchen that night, still reeking of a back room in Soho. The look she had when she sat at the breakfast table in her fuzzy pink dressing gown, Bradstreet’s photos spread in front of her. But it’s close.

 _“Your sex life can wait,”_ she hisses.

In my peripheral vision, I see Ford get up, grabbing his shirt and sweater. I watch him walk into the bath, the smooth muscles of his back gleaming in the light from the floor lamp. God, look at him. Two minutes ago we were—this can’t be happening.

I lean close to her.   “Angela,” I say softly. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”  
  
She takes a big sniff. “Oh my God. Are you high?”  
  
“No.” She’s killed my boner _and_ my buzz.

“Don’t lie to me, Neville Andrew.”

“I had a few hits off a joint. No worse than a couple of glasses of wine. You know that.”

“I don’t remember. I haven’t smoked pot since university. Normal adults don’t get baked on Sunday and shag strangers on their brother’s old sofa. Christ, grow up.”

I close my eyes, praying for patience. “He’s not a stranger. He’s Ford fucking Huxley.”

Finally, something breaks through that burning resentment. She freezes, staring at the door to the loo. Then her lips spread in a mirthless grin.

“So. You bloody did it. Of course you bloody did, I’m not surprised. I’m also not impressed. Do you think I care that you somehow managed to lure your giant fanboy crush into your— _ow!”_  
  
“For God’s sake! Lower your voice.”

“Have you gone insane?”

Remembering her condition, I loosen my grip on her bicep. “Sorry. But this is a really bad time. Can’t you take Sophie to your mum’s?”  
  
“Mum is at a hairdresser’s convention in Blackpool. I can’t take Sophie to your parents’, your Dad has the flu and she’s just getting over a cold. It has to be you. Sorry it interferes with your busy schedule, but you’re going to have to man up and be a fucking father. Are we clear?”

She gives me a withering stare. “It pains me to have to say this, but you do realize that you can’t shag Ford Huxley while your daughter is here? Not even after she’s asleep.”

 _“I’m not a pervert.”_ When she just stares: “It doesn’t matter anyway. He won’t stay after this.”  
  
Angie looks smug. I could shake her, fetus or no fetus, but of course I restrain myself. We both know that I haven’t got a leg to stand on. I haven’t had one for five fucking years.

Everything happens fast after that. In the time it takes the iPod to go from “I Am the Walrus” to “Strawberry Fields Forever,” Angie has gone back down to the car, brought up Sophie bag and baggage, kissed her daughter goodbye, shot Ford a disbelieving glance and me a warning glare, and departed, husband in tow. The husband trails behind as Angie stomps downstairs.

He looks back, and I give him a nod. “Bye, Nige. Sorry about your mum.”  
  
“Thanks. Sorry about all—”

“For pity’s sake, man!” Angie says. “I’d like to get to Manchester before daybreak.”

Nigel rubs at his flattop nervously. “You look pale, sweetheart. Is it the baby?”

“I’m starving. If we don’t find a McDonalds, I’m coming back and eating that bloody cat.”

Nigel hustles after her, shooting me an apologetic look.

 _Don’t apologize to me, mate. She’s your problem now,_ I think as I shut the front door.

I look at the floor near the coat rack. Rheumy green eyes stare back.

“Don’t worry,” I say, bending to let the cat out of his carrier. “She was just joking.”  
  
Sarge gives a rusty meow and hobbles off in the direction of the desk.

Sophie is spinning around in my desk chair, red curls flying. Angie has her soberly dressed for winter, in a black shift dress over a white turtleneck and tights. Besides her hair, the only color on her is the boots: baby Doc Martens in shocking-pink patent leather. I bought them for her a few visits ago. She’ll outgrow them in six months and I don’t care. She loves them.

“Daddy! I’m hungry,” she says. “I looked in the kitchen but there aren’t any Coco Pops.”

“Right,” I sigh.

I wasn’t expecting her until Friday. There aren’t Coco Pops, or Jammie Dodgers, or Cheesy Pringles, or any of the other horrible things I let her eat when she visits. I’m out of that bubble bath she likes, and—shit. There isn’t any cat litter.   Sainsbury’s should still be open, but what to do with Sophie? She isn’t quite over that cold: I can’t take her out again in freezing weather.

Mum can’t drive after dark, and Dad is sick. David is 30 miles away. I can’t ring John tonight. If I wanted a rim job I could have it in 20 minutes from 20 different sources, but babysitting?

I start at a tap on my shoulder. It’s Ford, fully dressed to his leather jacket.  
  
“Cute kid,” he says, nodding at Sophie. “You never mention her in the blog.”  
  
“I try to keep my personal life out of it.”

“Good, I won’t be reading about us online tomorrow.” He sighs. “Not that there’s much to say.”

“I’m sorry. This wasn’t planned.”  
  
“Duh.” He shrugs. “Some other time, maybe.”

 _“Yes.”_ That sounded too eager, and I don’t care. “Text me.”  
  
“Sure thing, kiddo.” He reaches to the coatrack for his scarf. “Maybe I’ll stop by the Shadow Lounge. That’s where all the cute London waiters are hiding. You should have told me, Nev.”

He’s turning to the door. I’m seized by a sudden, desperate idea. “Wait,” I rasp.  
  
He turns back, raising both eyebrows.

“You’re okay with kids, right?”

“Kids are fine. Though most of them can’t act for shit. When I was directing _Kim_ —”

“I mean, you’ve spent time with them. Your little brother, and that profile _Entertainment Weekly_ did on you and your editor, Thandiwe Jackson. You lived with her and her daughter, right?”  
  
“Yeah, 20 years ago.” He stares at me, realization dawning. “Huh-uh _. No.”_   

“Please?”  
  
“Can’t you call someone? A relative, a mate, fucking Mary Poppins?”  
  
“No, I can’t.”

“Look, I feel your pain, but I just don’t think—”

 _“Please_ , Ford.” I scrape hands through my hair. “I know it’s an imposition. But my cupboards are as bare as Mother Hubbard’s, and I can’t take Sophie out in this weather. Hear her coughing? That poor beast next to her is 87 in cat years, and there’s no cat litter, and he’s going to sit on my Chesterfield and just _go_. You have no fucking idea what that smells—”

“Fine, Jesus!” Ford rolls his eyes. “For the sake of the Chesterfield.”

I’m so grateful I could kiss him. I’d love to, actually, but Sophie is right there. Instead I snatch my coat from the rack.

“Hold on,” Ford says. “What about your kid? She doesn’t know me.”  
  
“That’s no problem. My daughter never met a stranger.   Oi, Sophie!”  
  
She stops mid-spin. “What?”  
  
“I’m going out for Coco Puffs. This gentleman is Mr. Huxley. He’ll be looking after you.”  
  
“Hello, Mr. Huxley.” She gives him a beauty queen wave, shaking her curls.

“I’ll be quick,” I tell him. “Thirty minutes tops, I promise—”

“Just _go_ already. Before the crypt keeper over there feels a call of nature.”  

The words are impatient but he’s grinning, blinding white and cheeky as hell. He’s so beautiful, he could make you angry. But that’s not how I feel.

_He could have been inside me by now._

But I blink away the image. Some other time, maybe.

If Ford remembers me. There are a lot of cute waiters in London.

I wrap my scarf tight enough to strangle, and set out into the cold.

 


	55. Chapter 55

** Ford 6 January 2013 **

_One hour earlier_

The suite at 45 Park Lane is nice, though it’s not really to my taste. I wouldn’t have paired puce sofas with those rust-colored chairs in the living room, and the Emperador marble in the bath is really loud, especially when there’s that much of it. But the mural in the dining room is growing on me, though the artist owes Diego Rivera a royalty check, and you can see the London Eye out of the window nearby. The bed is big and comfortable, with a snowy duvet and 800 threadcount sheets. I’m happy enough with the photo hung over it, Audrey pretty and puckish in black Capri pants, and I’m really happy with the Bang & Olufson TV. There’s a state-of-the art gym on the first floor and a Michelin three-star restaurant next door. The suite will do fine.

I’m standing at the mirror in the bath, fully dressed to go out except for my scarf, which I’m still arranging. (Skulls on silk—I fucking love Alexander McQueen.) I am in a good mood, despite the fact that just I banged my elbow on the sharp edge of the marble vanity. Brown marble with cream veins, which just shouts at you, especially when the shower is cream marble with brown veins. The genius who came up with that combo should be beaten to death with his own tacky finishes. But I _am_ in a good mood, the scarf almost arranged and the car already ordered, when the first three measures of “Bolero” come blaring from my phone.

I roll my eyes in anticipation. Even if I hadn’t programmed a special ringtone for him, I would know who this is. I always know it’s him, which is pretty pathetic as far as Spidey senses go.

I pick up without preamble. “Well?   All quiet on the Western front?”  
  
“Surprisingly, yes. Sherlock is asleep and John is checking on the baby.”  
  
“How domestic of them. Sherlock’s fucked his woobie into a better frame of mind, then.”  
  
“Don’t be crude, Sherrin—leave that alone, Bess! My necktie is not a snake.”  
  
“So,” I sigh, “they’re not fucking. Why am I not surprised?”

“It’s been a trying day. John and Sherlock have had more important things to think about than indulging their baser instincts.”  
  
“Like airing their dirty laundry in front of the whole fucking world? The remixes are already on YouTube, Mike. Somebody _autotuned_ the fight. It’s kind of catchy if you like Daft Punk.”  

Mycroft sighs deeply. “This is going to get worse before it gets better, isn’t it?”  
  
“Yes, there will be memes. And merchandising. I’m saving up for a _Crazy People Are the Best Shags_ t-shirt, myself. Want me to get you one? Zazzle has free shipping on orders of $25 or—”

“How in blazes can you joke about this? Do you realize how serious— _no_ , Hal. Get your nose out of there. You know you’re not allowed to have onions.”  

I can see exactly where Mycroft is. Sitting alone at the old oak table in the kitchen at Chapel Street, stuffing his face with shepherd’s pie, surrounded by kitty cats. Would you believe that this is the highlight of his week?   I’d feel sorry for him, but he brought this fate on himself.  

“I’m fully aware of the implications,” I say. “Our baby brother shit the bed again. As if you didn’t have enough trouble toilet training him the first time. Guess it could be worse: At least he’s not tweaked out of his mind on coke.”

There’s no reply, and I silently wince. It wasn’t the best idea, bringing up baby brother’s habit. The one time I’ve ever been scared of Mycroft was during the call I made from Cedars-Sinai all those years ago. The one where I had to tell him about Sherlock’s car accident, and what caused it. I’d never heard him sound like that before, and I hope to never hear him sound like that again. Siger was three years dead by then, but for five minutes he was back, icy calm and terrifying.

When Sherlock got out of rehab, I left flaming tracks on PCH, I drove him to the airport so fast.

I blame myself about Sherlock, but not how you think. I should have seen the neediness beneath his silences: Sherlock at 18 wasn’t much less fragile than Sherlock at six. I should have seen, but I suppose I didn’t want to. I paid for the myopia—Sherlock made me pay. When he was 20, and 26, and 32. I like to think the debt is clear, after what he put me through the last six months. But I’m not sure. His method of figuring interest is obscure. All the numbers seem to be imaginary.

The silence has gotten awkward at this point.

“Well, it’s been real,” I say. “But I can’t talk. I have to be somewhere.”  
  
“Neville St. Clair’s?”  
  
I glare into the vanity mirror. “If you’ve been following me with those fucking cameras again—”

“Please. The body language I saw this morning was suggestive, but I don’t need surveillance videos to inform me of your prurient intentions. They’ve always been painfully obvious.”

Thirty years later, he’s still giving me shit for being a teenage slut. Do I give him shit for being a teenage fatty? Well—I do, actually. This is why I hate talking to Mycroft. Two minutes of chat with him, and I’m 16 again. I don’t wanna go back to the ‘80s. Everybody’s hair was really bad.

I look in the mirror, poking fitfully at my current coiffure. Christophe’s cut is, as always, divine, but I’m not sure about what Enrico did with the color. He’s been trying to talk me into the whole silver fox thing, but I think he’s full of shit. If I was that into the Anderson Cooper look, I would still be fucking Anderson Cooper.

“Are you listening?”

“No, I’m not.” Rico left me as grey as a fucking badger. I’m totally going to Soledad next time.

“I said, if you’re interested in St. Clair’s file, I can e-mail it.”  
  
“I don’t want to see your creepy little file. It’s really gross that you even offered.”  
  
“Very well. If that’s what you want.”

I know this tone. It’s the go-ahead-and-shag-the-gardener’s-boy-Sherrinford-you-know-it-will-end-in-tears tone. But it didn’t, did it? We’re all still here, even after Siger caught me on my knees with a pretty brown cock in my mouth. Ah, the ‘80s.

“I know everything I need to know about Neville St. Clair. He’s very pretty and very easy. Sorry if you don’t approve—”

“I don’t care about St. Clair. I offered the file out of simple courtesy.”

“Uh-huh. That’s our relationship in a nutshell: courteous. What the fuck?”

“Don’t be so suspicious. Of course I want to helpful. You’re my brother.”

I feel him smirking. Sitting there, stuffed full of pie, a cat on his lap like he’s motherfucking Blofeld. I’m no expert at espionage (though I could definitely do a better job with Bond than Sam Mendes), but my brother’s evil plan isn’t hard to figure out. 

“Brotherly love? Bullshit. If I’m fucking Neville, he can’t be fucking John. If John isn’t fucking Neville, it’s more likely he’ll keep fucking Sherlock. Which _is_ something you care about. It’s the transitive fucking property. Literally.”  
  
“That’s not how the transitive property works.”

“Whatever. You want Nev off John and me on Nev, because John’s hobbity presence keeps our brother from snorting the gross national product of Bolivia up his nose. It’s so fucking obvious.”

Silence again, which really pisses me off. I know Mycroft blames me for Sherlock’s addictions. I also know there’s a certain truth to the charge. But it’s not the whole truth. I did a lot of coke in my 20s, and never came remotely close to being a junkie. Mycroft likes his call girls, but with the measured enjoyment of a woman having a monthly facial. Our vices don’t consume us like Sherlock’s almost consumed him. I know the loss which left him vulnerable, and it didn’t happen in L.A. It happened when he was a year old, and that _wasn’t_ my fault.

“Stop interfering in people’s sex lives, Mike. You know how well that always works out.”

“I’m not bloody interfering,” Mycroft snaps, and I know I’ve hit my mark. I see him sitting there, hands clenched. That poor kitty is getting squeezed to death.

“Good, because I don’t need the help. Neither does Sherlock. John will forgive him or he won’t, and that’s only tangentially related to Sherlock’s cock. Either way, it’s their bloody business. If you want to help our brother, do something about the demented muppet who made him jump off the roof in the first place.”  
  
“I _am,”_ Mycroft says. “It’s complicated, Sherrinford. This is real life, not one of your movies.”  
  
“It will be one day,” I remind him. “As soon as Sherlock gives me the rights. So make sure the ending is suitably dramatic, m’kay? You know what a headache third acts can be. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a presumptuous blogger to shag into submission.”    

“Yes, I saw St. Clair’s blog this morning. Very clever. Especially the Freudian reading.”

I hang up on him. I do not have time for this. To be honest, I don’t think Mycroft enjoys our conversations any more than I do. But we keep calling, like exes who can’t quit fucking with each other. I’m not sure which of us is more pathetic.

He is. Mycroft is more pathetic, with his scheming and surveilling. I hate it when he interferes. I hate it so much that I’m tempted not to fuck Neville, just for spite.

I look in the mirror one more time, picking fretfully at a particularly glaring streak of silver. I’ve been greying since my early 20s. I’d be mostly grey by now, if I didn’t see Rico every six weeks. By 50 it would be all grey, a shining silver pelt many people would find sexy. But I won’t let that happen. Not at 50 or at 90. I won’t look in the mirror and see _him_ looking back.

I survey myself carefully. I take in the whole outfit, Prada boots to McQueen scarf. I look at my face, which is free of all but the faintest lines. There has been a little judicious Botoxing, but not nearly as much as those bitchy L.A. queens like to think. I haven’t had anything nipped, tucked, sucked, or cut: My saving graces are Clé de Peau skin crème, a healthy diet, and Violet’s excellent bone structure. I’m my mother’s son, and thank God for that.

I don’t look like Siger. I don’t look like Harry Potter with bad ‘80s hair anymore, either. I’m so far away from all that, here in my luxury hotel suite, with its flashy marble and killer view. I’m half a mile from where I grew up, but in psychological terms Chapel Street is the fucking moon.

I look good, in spite of Enrico: thin, young, sexy. I don’t look like Siger. My father has been gone for a long time. He has nothing to do with the man you see here.

Of course I’m going to fuck Neville St. Clair. I give my reflection a grin and head out the door.

 

* * *

 

Ken is a piece of ass, no doubt about it. Tall and perfectly sculpted, with chiseled features and shiny dark hair that reaches his shoulders. He’s dressed like a lot of the model/actor/whatevers I’ve met: tight jeans and a tighter t-shirt, showing off his assets. He hasn’t told me what he does for a living, but I have my suspicions. The blonde tart with him is grinning like she owns him.

Normally I like meeting Americans, especially when I’m stuck in the freezing hell of London. But I just feel sorry for Ken, sitting so stiffly on that chic little bistro chair. He and what’s-her-name have the best table in the place, but he’s not enjoying it. He just keeps grinning blankly, while she natters on about her sister and her horses and her beach house. Poor sucker. If he was smart, he’d hop in that red convertible of hers and drive away as fast as he can. I’m tempted to rescue him, but it would never work. Hot as he is, on camera he’d be a block of wood.

Plastic, actually. It’s almost a relief when the big paw knocks him off his glittery pink chair.

 _“Stop_ it, Sarge!” Sophie yells. The cat has his snaggly teeth around Ken’s ankle and is dragging him away, but she snatches Ken back and sits him at the table next to Barbie.

Sarge yowls pitifully, but Sophie ignores him. “Sorry, man,” I whisper. Sarge just gives me a bleary look and jumps shakily onto the sofa, curling up in the corner to take an angry nap.

Sophie is neatening the table that Sarge disarranged, putting tiny glasses and plates back into order. She’s keeping a running commentary going as she does it, speaking sometimes to Barbie and sometimes _as_ Barbie, reminding Ken about the upcoming RV trip. The RV is parked outside the beach house, next to the red Porsche. The horse paddock and swimming pool aren’t far off. Barbie is obviously loaded, though the origins of her fortune are a mystery. I can think of two possibilities, and they _are_ fabulous. Made of plastic, but that’s true of most fabulous tits.

I look around Neville’s lounge. In the time he’s been gone, his little girl has colonized the place. This happened right after he left, Sophie skipping to the big wardrobe by the TV. Opening it up revealed an Aladdin’s cave of girly treasures. I was pressed into service, moving the table so she could set up Barbie’s lair in front of the sofa. The result is impressive, though we did have a bad two minutes when I told her the ski boat looked tacky on the front lawn. What is this, Alabama?

It took some persuading, but she finally agreed to move the damn boat. The adjustment left more room for Barbie’s carousel, which is currently occupied by Jack Sparrow, Katniss Everdeen, and Edward Cullen, all members of Sophie’s remarkable rogue’s gallery of dolls.

“No, Ken, Skipper can’t come in the RV,” Sophie says. “She has to take care of the horses.”

Sophie’s really fucking cute, even if you’re not much on kids. If I ever wrestle Wonderland from Tim Burton’s moldy grip, my Alice might look like this: a pale slip of a girl with a mop of wild curls, huge blue eyes and a heart-shaped face. Her existence came as something of a shock, but I knew whose she was the second I saw her. The curls and the eyes are all Nev, though Sophie is, like her mum, a flaming ginger. Let’s hope the flaming bitch gene is recessive.

Neville’s ex-wife has him by the short hairs, and I don’t need Mycroft’s file to figure out why. Nev’s reputation precedes him, and only flagrant infidelity puts that particular psychotic gleam in a woman’s eye. Guilt also explains all the goddamn dolls. Barbie has a dream house with an elevator and a carousel, and Nev’s running around with holes in his jumpers.

It’s a pretty great carousel, though. Jack Sparrow is having a fine time. It’s close enough to the bistro, which I’ve nestled under one arm of the Chesterfield, that he and Ken can see each other. There’s a lot of eyefucking going on behind Barbie’s back. Ken can do way better than an alky pirate, though. My choice is ‘Andy,’ a mop-haired lad with such a sweet little face.

“I think Barbie is getting bored,” I say. “Why don’t we invite more people to the party?”  
  
“Okay,” Sophie says. I smile when she picks up Andy, who’s been pining from the shelf under the coffee table. Then she picks up another doll next to him, and I frown.

“Peeta? Really?”

“Peeta is Andy’s boyfriend.”

“ _Him?_ I thought they were roommates.” I’ve tried not to judge, but there is a shocking wealth gap in Barbieland. Most of the population is hanging out at the beach house and whooping it up on the carousel, but a few poor souls are banished to the other ‘flat,’ which is just an empty shelf with no furniture. I’ve been plotting how to get Andy out of the gulag for some time now.

I finally score him a seat at the big table, and fucking Peeta is tagging along? I don’t think so.

“Isn’t Peeta with Katniss? That’s how it is in the movie.”

“Katniss’ boyfriend is Legolas,” Sophie says. “They both have bows and arrows.”      

“That’s hardly a basis for a relationship—”

Sophie rolls her eyes and plunks Peeta and Andy at the table with Barbie and Ken.

I scowl at Peeta, solid and sandy-haired and so fucking dull. He’s spoiling the exclusivity of my bistro. It only has two tables, the glittery pink one which was a present from Sophie’s gran, and the blue two-seater from the beach house. The latter is occupied by Vampire Bella and her buddy Jacob. Fair enough: Bella has a certain goth glamor, and Jacob is buff with a sexy tattoo. Barbie and Ken’s table has the only available seats. I was going to send Ariel along with Andy, because mermaids are cool. I would also have considered one of the Merida octuplets, though the one in the black dress is way out of scale. But fucking Peeta?  
  
“He’s not even dressed right,” I mutter. He’s somehow lost his Hunger Games jumpsuit, and is now tricked out in a fuzzy yellow sweater and shiny blue tights. Andy has only a bathing suit to hide his shame, but he’s _Andy_. Jacob isn’t wearing a shirt, either. Nudity is not the issue here.

“Why don’t we put Peeta in the pool?” I try again. “He could borrow Andy’s suit, and—”

Sophie gives me a skeptical look that’s eerily like the one I got from Angie. “Why?”

“Andy and Peeta have been together a while. Maybe they’d like to explore their options.”  
  
“Peeta’s boyfriend used to be Prince Charming,” Sophie says sadly. “But Sarge ate his head. Daddy threw him in the bin.”  

“So that’s where Peeta’s tights came from. How sweet, robbing his dead lover’s corpse.”  
  
“Daddy bought me Andy last month. He’s a _fashionista.”_ She pronounces the word carefully.

“A fashionista in a bathing suit?”  
  
“Barbie has his shirt and shorts. She wears them camping.” 

_“What?_ She has ten fucking Balenciaga ballgowns and she steals Andy’s one decent set of—” I stop. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to curse.”

Sophie shrugs. “Daddy says the f-word all the time.”  
  
“I bet he does.” I grin. “Sophie, I think you ought to let Andy have dinner with Ken.”

I switch the tables around, so Bella and Jacob are stuck with Barbie and Peeta, and Andy and Ken have the blue two-top all to themselves. “There. Much better.”  
  
She sighs. “Okay. But Ken is _Barbie’s_ boyfriend.”  
  
“Are you sure? Maybe he just admires Barbie’s _joie de vivre_ and impressive shoe collection. Maybe Barbie is ready to move on. Edward is single. He _sparkles_ —who wouldn’t like that?”    

“I don’t know,” Sophie says, twirling a curl around one finger. “Bella loves Edward. She’s just with Jacob to make him jealous.”  
  
“Manipulative cow.” I pluck Peeta off the glittery chair and toss him in the general direction of the coffee table. I pick Edward up from the carousel and set him neatly in the bistro.

“Perfect. Two vampires, a werewolf, a hot twink in a bathing suit, and Barbie and Ken. _That’s_ how you build buzz, darling. My bistro is going to be the hottest place in town.”  
  
“Can Jack Sparrow come?”  
  
“No, he smells.”

Things go swimmingly after that. Barbie’s table is a hotbed of intrigue and lust, Barbie holding hands with Edward while Bella shoots daggers from her eerie gold eyes. Edward placates both women while playing footsie with Jacob under the table. Jacob has a not-so-bright look on his face, as usual. But with the six-pack abs and the sexy tat, nobody minds.

Meanwhile, Ken and Andy are having a lovely dinner _à deux._ I’ve stolen most of the plates and cutlery from the big table to make this possible. (It’s not like the others care: Edward and Bella are vampires, Jacob only eats deer carcasses or something, and Barbie didn’t get a 16-inch waist from ingesting food.) Ken and Andy are having the whipped jacket potatoes and crispy shallots, followed by a piquant goat’s cheese and roasted cauliflower _mille feuille_. Andy is trying to get Ken to try the treacle sponge with cardamom milk for dessert, but Ken is demurring.

_‘I won’t be able to fit in my jeans,’ Ken says._

_‘So?’_

_‘They’re the only ones I have. Barbie’s nicked all the rest.’_

_Andy gives Ken a melting look. ‘I understand. I really do.’_

_The boys share a moment of silent commiseration._

_Andy suddenly looks much more cheerful. He digs into the sponge and offers Ken a spoonful, warm and golden and dripping with milky sauce. ‘Here. Have a taste.’_

_‘But my jeans—’_

_‘Fuck the jeans.’_

_‘But if they don’t fit—’_

_‘You’ll just have to go naked.’_

_Ken eats the sponge. He licks the spoon clean, staring at Andy. Andy stares back, face propped on one slim hand, fingers buried in his mop of silky dark curls._

_‘Come back to mine,’ he says._

_‘What about Peeta?’_

_‘Peeta’s a prat. I hope the cat eats him.’_

_Ken hesitates. Barbie’s just gotten over that thing with her sister. Ken spent five days sleeping in the elevator, and Skipper is still shoveling horseshit. But Andy—who wouldn’t want Andy?   Pretty as an angel, but those blue eyes are wicked. Those red lips—they can_ do _things. Ken’s heard the whispering around the carousel._

_‘I’m just a fake, Andy,’ Ken says softly. ‘A hustler in molded plastic underpants.’_

_‘Barbie’s tits are fake,’ Andy says. ‘And the underpants—they come off, you know.’_

_‘Seriously?’_

_‘Oh yeah.’_

_Ken raises a hand at the server. ‘Check, please.’_

I jump as a hand touches my shoulder. “I’m sorry,” Neville says. “Sainsbury’s was a zoo.”

I blink at him. It’s always so disorienting, coming out of a story. One minute you’re having a lovely dinner at Vanilla Black with Andy, and the next you’re back here with—not Andy.

“Huh?” I say.

“I know it’s late. Sainsbury’s was mobbed, and there weren’t any Coco Puffs so I had to ask a stockboy, and he took forever mucking about in the back, and I couldn’t get a cab—”

 _“You didn’t get Coco Puffs?”_ Sophie screeches.

Neville yanks one of her curls affectionately. “Yes, my little chocoholic. I got them. Finally. They’re on the counter.” Sophie goes running to the kitchen, tiny boots stomping on the floorboards. Neville turns back to me. “I really am sorry. I know I said 30 minutes.”  
  
“It’s fine.” I glance at the clock on the DVD player. He can’t be that—holy shit, 10:06?

Neville is surveying Barbieland, raking a hand through his hair in that distracting way of his. His lips are redder than ever, cheeks pink with cold. If I were making _Snow White_ instead of _Alice_ , my princess would look like him. I wouldn’t have to pretty her up much at all.

“Well,” he says. “At least you kept busy.”  
  
He’s being polite. Sophie and I made a godawful mess. Before I opened the bistro, there was an entire saga involving Ariel, Captain Jack, Legolas, and the Merida clones. I stole most of it from Tolkien and the D’Aulaires, along with some (quite expurgated) George R. R. Martin. We made mountains out of Neville’s bedpillows and an ocean with his blue paisley quilt. There were plots and betrayals and scary monsters. Sarge made a very good, if slightly decrepit, Nemean Lion.  

It’s been 20 years since I played Barbies. Natasha’s dolls weren’t this expensive or this diverse, since Thandie didn’t really approve of the whole Barbie thing anyway, anti-feminist materialistic blah blah blah body dysmorphia etc. I never minded, though. Playing dolls isn’t much different from rehearsing scenes with real people, except dolls never try to put their two fucking cents in after you’ve written all the dialogue and blocked everything out. Christ, actors.

I didn’t mind keeping Sophie company. Though I had every right to say no, after my hot date got turned into a babysitting gig. Nev didn’t plan that, but still.

I _was_ going to say no. Then he gave me the big eyes. How do you say no to Snow White?

“Thanks again,” he says. “If there’s any way I can repay you, just ask.”  
  
“Oh, I can think of a few things.”

Neville gives me a naughty smirk. Christ, he’s cute. _Wicked_ , with those blue eyes and red lips. He looks like Snow White but gives head like a Reeperbahn rent boy. It’s a deadly combination.

I get up from the floor, looming over him. “Maybe more than a few. I’ll have to think about it.”  
  
Neville sidles close. I can smell his cologne, the one that made Sherlock lose his damn mind last night. Normally I don’t like anything by Gucci, but this works on Nev. Brash, sweet, a little bit dirty—that’s the patchouli. A fast fuck on a Chesterfield kind of scent. A slim but skillful hand closing around your cock, blue eyes burning up at you with a need that’s shocking. Intoxicating.  

Maybe after the kid goes to sleep. That has to be soon, right? This fucking loft has no privacy at all, but there’s a bathroom. I’ll be quiet. I’ll stuff a towel down my throat if that’s what it takes.

“Say, Nev, what do you think about—”

 _“Djardgee!”_ Sophie says. _“Ahm mwawre mwatch a rmsovie.”_  
  
Nev takes a couple of hasty steps back and looks down at his daughter. “What?”  
  
Sophie swallows her mouthful of Coco Puffs. “Daddy. I wanna watch a movie.”  
  
“It’s late, sweetie. You’re just getting over being sick.”

“Please? I don’t have school.” Sophie shifts her cereal bowl to her left hand. She clutches his fingers with her right, giving him the big eyes. “I don’t wanna go to bed yet. _I’ve missed you.”_

Nicely done. I’d admire her game, if the mop-headed minx wasn’t totally cockblocking me.  
  
Neville scrapes hands through his hair. He gives me a guilty shrug.

I sigh. “I should be going, anyway.”

His shoulders slump, but he nods.

“No!” Sophie says. “You have to stay and watch the movie.”  
  
“Mr. Huxley has to go home,” Neville says.

“Why? He doesn’t have school.”

I look at her quizzically. “You really want me to stay?”  
  
“Uh-huh. You’re very bossy, but you tell good stories.”

“Sophie!”   Neville says. “That was rude. Apologize.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Huxley.” She bats her long eyelashes.

I grin. “You’ve just summed up every article that’s been written about me for the last 20 years.”  
  
“You _can_ stay if you want,” Neville says. “You know, if you don’t have anything better to do.”

Oh, there are lots of better things I could do. I could go to the Shadow Lounge, where I will be hit on by a hundred model/actor/whatevers. I don’t always get recognized outside of L.A., but the Shadow Lounge is 80% gay: The boys in the tight pants always know me. Last night, I got mobbed about two minutes after I got there. Even retreating to the VIP area didn’t help much.

Some of the boys aren’t gay. But they’re all hungry. Any of them would be thrilled to come back to my hotel suite. No ex-wives, no cunning minxes with Barbie dolls and stompy boots. Just chiseled faces and bodies, happy to do any filthy, degrading thing I can think of.

I’m sure it makes it easier for them that I’m not fat and hideous, but it wouldn’t matter if I were. You should see the pussy Harvey Weinstein gets. If I go to the Shadow Lounge, there they’ll be, those ravenous boys. They hang on your every word, but don’t try to talk to them. Some can put on a good show—they’re actors, after all. But there’s no real personality there, just cold hustle.

“Never mind,” Neville says. “I guess you wouldn’t—”

“I’ll stay,” I say. “Why not?”  
  
“Yay!” Sophie says. “We can watch _Brave!”_  
  
I give her a narrow look. “No. I pick the movie.”

She narrows her eyes right back. “Why?”  
  
“Because I’m the guest, and I’m very bossy. Finish your cereal.”

 

* * *

 

I would have liked to show Sophie one of my movies. Unfortunately, I’ve never made a picture that’s suitable for all ages. Even _Kim_ has that scene with the Woman of Shamlegh, which a few critics made a fuss over. No, it wasn’t in the book, and yeah, it was pretty raw, but Kim was all grown up at that point, anyway. He spent his childhood in the slums of Lahore with the thieves and prostitutes, but apparently I was the one besmirching boyish innocence. Whatever.

“I wanna watch _Brave_ ,” Sophie says, stomping her little pink boots.

“It’s good to want things,” I tell her. “But we’re watching _Alice in Wonderland.”_

Neville looks surprised. “You like Tim Burton?”  
  
“I hate Tim Burton. Well, _Beetlejuice_ was pretty good. I’ll even give him the first _Batman_.”  
  
“ _Ed Wood_ —”

“Schmaltzy kitsch. And other, less polite Yiddish words. The only reason people think it’s classy is because it’s filmed in black and white and Martin Landau acted his butt off. Johnny Depp was terrible, just terrible. I’ve never seen his appeal. Captain Jack is a panto rip-off.”  
  
“Captain Jack smells,” Sophie says.

“Yes, honey, he does. Especially when you’re stuck sitting next to him at the SAG Awards.”

Neville smirks. “We’re not watching Burton’s _Alice_.”  
  
“Nope. Walt Disney was a fascist pig, but he made some darn good cartoons.”

“Go ahead and get it set up. I’m pretty sure all the Disney stuff is on iTunes.” Neville nods at the AppleTV on the television stand. “Take your time. I have to get Sarge’s litterbox set up. Then Miss Nibs needs a bath.”  
  
“No I don’t!” Sophie protests.  
  
“Uh-huh,” Neville says, picking a Coco Puff out of her hair.

It doesn’t take long to get everything arranged. By the time the clock chimes the half hour we’re all sitting on the sofa, the lights dimmed appropriately so the colors on Neville’s 50-inch plasma really pop. I’m on one side and Neville is on the other, Sophie in-between us, looking as cute as a button in her pink Hello Kitty pajamas. Sarge, who is in a much better mood after scratching around in the litterbox for ten minutes, has decided I’m a worthy acquaintance. He’s curled up next to me, occasionally digging sharp little claws into my jeans.

Sophie has another bowl of Coco Puffs in her lap. Childhood obesity _is_ a problem, but she’s so tiny. Probably eats with two forks and never gains an ounce, just like her Daddy. I find myself scowling, watching Nev tear into a packet of Jammie Dodgers.

He catches my eye and holds the packet out. “Biscuit?”

“No thanks.”

“You don’t know what you’re missing, mate.” He pulls one out and takes a big, gooey bite.

Of course I do. Mrs. Thompson used to buy Jammie Dodgers, but I gave up biscuits around the time my balls dropped. Not that the two incidents are related.

I sigh and start the movie. 

I can’t remember the last time I watched Disney’s _Alice._ I’d forgotten how much I like it. Of all the versions, it’s the only one that gets the whimsy and the darkness almost right. The whimsy is perfect: Who doesn’t grin at the Hatter’s piping teakettles? What could be lovelier than singing flowers? There isn’t enough darkness—this is Disney. But what is there is real enough. It’s in the caterpillar’s opium-soaked arrogance, the Cheshire Cat’s manic smiles, the Queen of Hearts’ screaming madness. The whimsy works _because_ of the darkness. Too many versions forget that.  

It can’t compete with Pixar, though. Sophie giggles at Tweedledum and Tweedledee and seems enchanted by the singing flowers, but by the time the Caterpillar is blowing smoke she’s starting to fade, long eyelashes fluttering over her eyes. She rallies somewhat for the Mad Tea Party, but the Tulgey Wood loses her completely. She curls up against Neville and starts snoring.

“So much for the classics,” I say softly.

“She only makes it through _Brave_ half the time. Two bowls of Coco Puffs put her right out.”  
  
“Carb coma. That’s taking the easy way out, man.” I shut off the TV.  
  
“It’s the only way I get any work done while she’s here.”

He rises, picking up Sophie. She burrows her head into his shoulder but doesn’t wake up. He holds her a minute, their heart-shaped faces close together. The physical resemblance is clear. I’d never cast them as parent and child, though. He doesn’t look old enough to be her father.

Neville bends his knees, picking up the quilt and pillows from where we left them on the floor. He keeps Sophie on one hip and the linens under his arm. He makes his way to the bed without dropping anything. He’s obviously done this a lot. He’s good at it, Coco Puffs be damned.

I might cast him as an older brother. Brothers can be fatherly. They can try, anyway.

I suddenly remember the last time I saw _Alice_. It was with Sherlock. He was seven and I was not quite 18. We watched it in my bedroom, on the little TV/VCR combo unit I’d bought with Mum’s Christmas money one year. I rented it because I thought Sherlock would like it, and for once I got it right. He loved it, especially the Cheshire Cat. It reminded him of Walsingham.

I can see Sherlock’s face clearly, his grey eyes wide and delighted. They looked like a child’s eyes for once. He loved the movie so much, he wanted to watch it again as soon as it was over. I was going out, though.  I told him we’d watch _Alice_ another time, but it never happened. I left London very soon after that. I wouldn’t see my brother again for 11 years.

I look up when I hear the couch springs creak. Neville is next to me. “Penny for your thoughts.”  
  
I smile. “I think Alice deserves better than Tim Burton.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Carroll is public domain. Knock yourself out.”  
  
“Maybe I will. Before Burton takes on _Through the Looking Glass_ and traumatizes us all.”  
  
Neville leans his arm on the back of the sofa, propping his chin in his hand thoughtfully. “I’ve always preferred _Looking Glass_ to _Wonderland_ ,” he says. “Being able to just step through the mirror one day, enter a new world—it’s a metaphor for the entire storytelling process, isn’t it?”  
  
“In a way. But I’ve always thought that _Looking Glass_ is about inversion. Black becomes white, left becomes right: The story is full of odd and even numbers. Carroll was obsessed with mirror images. In _Sylvie and Bruno,_ he points out that LIVE is EVIL spelled backwards. That’s why his universes are so dangerous. Anything can become its own opposite. But in the transformation, it seems to find its true nature. An ugly baby turns into a pig. A pack of quarrelsome courtiers are reduced to a deck of cards. Alice the Pawn becomes Alice the Queen.”  
  
“Carroll was a lefty forced to become right-handed,” Neville says. “I read that somewhere once. Maybe that’s where the obsession with opposition came from.”  
  
“Being forced to deny your true nature can make you do strange things.”  
  
Neville tilts his head at me. “So Carroll was the original closet case?”  
  
“It’s a nicer idea than the pedophile theory.”  
  
“Poor Lewis. If he’d just gotten laid—”

“We wouldn’t have Wonderland. Maybe it was worth the sacrifice.”  
  
“Come on, Ford. When has a healthy sex life ever stifled creativity? It hasn’t hurt yours much.”

I look at him steadily. “I don’t have sex when I’m making a movie.”

Neville blinks at me. “ _What?_ Why?”  
  
I shrug. “I’m busy.”  
  
“Not 24 hours a day. You couldn’t take 15 minutes for a quickie or something?”  
  
“I could. But I don’t.”  
  
He laughs, shaking his head. “Now I remember whose brother you are. Fucking Martians.”  
  
I frown at him. “I’m not a Martian. I’m just—”

“Busy. Right.” Neville reaches out, his fingers playing over my wrist. The touch is light and cool, not quite flirtatious. Friendly. “You make a lot of movies. That’s a lot of lonely nights with Rosy Palm and her sisters.”  
  
I don’t jerk off when I’m filming, either. But I’m not telling him. I’ve already said too much.

“It’s not a big deal.”

Neville gives me a smile that’s a lot more than friendly. “When you’re _not_ making a movie—”

“It’s a very big deal.”   I grip his hand. “Nev—”

“We can’t,” he says. “You think I haven’t been sitting here for the last hour, trying to figure it out? There’s no workaround tonight. Not even the bathroom.” Seeing me blink: “You don’t have to be a Holmes to see that option. But even if we were quiet, it would be wrong.”  
  
“Yeah.” I sigh. “I should go.”  
  
“Off to the Shadow Lounge, then?” He’s smiling, but I catch a slight edge to the question.

“Not this late.” I wouldn’t go if it were earlier. I only went last night because I thought Nev would be there. But that’s another piece of information he’s not getting.

“Guess it’s the chatrooms for me.” When I look at him: “Kidding. I’ll probably check messages, though. One of my contacts was supposed to be sending some new dirt on Moriarty.”  
  
“Aren’t you fucking sick of Moriarty by now?”  
  
“Completely. But John will want the intel.”  
  
I consider pointing out that John should be looking for his own damn intel, but I don’t. It’s not really my business, though I think John takes advantage of Neville’s good nature.

I give the cat one last scritch between his ragged old ears. He leans his head back, purring his wheezy purr. I rather like Sarge: He can’t help being skinny and snaggle-toothed. I might not look so great either, when I’m 87.

I get up, grabbing my sweater. Neville rises too. “I’ll walk you down. I need a smoke.”  
  
“Ew. You know those things will kill you, right?”  
  
“ _Really?_ Because I have never been told that before. Ever. Thank you so much.”  
  
“Smartass.” I pull my phone out of my pocket and tap the Cabwise app.

We stand in the street a few minutes, waiting for my cab to show up. It’s rather cinematic, the mews lane quiet and dark at nearly midnight on a Sunday. There’s only a single streetlamp to illuminate the scene, its light casting shadows on the snowy cobblestones.

Neville is standing under the lamp smoking a Dunhill. Despite my occasional indulgence in pot, I despise tobacco and all its works. But Nev is one of those people who knows how to do it with style, as if the cigarette is a natural extension of his hand. His high cheekbones hollow out more as he inhales, making him look older. A pretty Philip Marlowe, waiting for his femme fatale.

 _That would make me the femme._ I can’t help giggling.

Neville exhales. “What’s funny?”

“Nothing. Tonight’s been weird.”  
  
“Yeah. Sorry.”  
  
“Stop apologizing. At least I wasn’t bored. I don’t even care that I have claw holes in my jeans.”  
  
Neville sighs. “Send me a bill.”

“Add it to Sophie’s Barbie fund. Apparently there’s a pink cruise ship with her name on it." 

Neville gives a smile that’s equal parts loving and guilty. “I know I spoil her rotten. But the divorce was hard on her. She was only two, and they say kids that age don’t remember, but—”

“They do. I know. My little brother was never the same after our mother left.”  
  
“I saw _The Shadow Son_ ,” Neville says slowly. “Is that what really happened?”

“Writing another blog post?”  
  
Neville’s cheeks, already pink from cold, go pinker. “ _No._ Ford, I—”

“It’s fine. I’m not suing.” I smirk at him. “But you still owe me.”  
  
“Too bad. I’m poor. You’ll have to repossess Barbie’s dreamhouse.”  
  
“I already have a beach house in Malibu. It’s not pink, though.”

“I bet it doesn’t have an elevator, either.”  
  
“Or a carousel. What the hell was I thinking?”  
  
Neville’s eyes are dreamy through a haze of smoke. “I’ve never seen the Pacific. I’d like to.”  
  
I can see him so clearly. Neville on the long sunny balcony of my house in California. He’s vivid against all that blond wood and white furniture. His eyes are bluer than the Pacific.

I blink away the image. This is London, and it’s fucking freezing.

Neville’s real, though. Standing in the amber light, flakes of snow frosting his dark hair, he’s so lovely. You could put the shot in a movie, it’s that fucking perfect. But Nev is no actor. There isn’t a single thing about him that’s plastic.

He takes one last drag and drops his fag, grinding it under his bootheel. He looks at me. I don’t know what’s showing on my face, but suddenly he looks almost angry. “Sod it. What the fuck is she gonna do, divorce me?”  
  
“What are you—” I stop as he grabs me by the lapels and kisses me.

The snow is falling and the wind is freezing, but his lips are so warm. He sure can kiss, Mr. Neville St. Clair. I kissed him on the sofa three hours ago, but that’s different than him kissing me. This is slow, deep, real. Smoky and sweet, like Dunhills and Jammie Dodgers.

I could stay in the cold all night long, kissing him. But at last Nev pulls away, giving my bottom lip one last piquant nip. He smooths my lapels back down. “There’s your cab.”  
  
I turn my head, squinting as I’m blinded by headlights. Just my luck: This one bloody night, a London cab is on time. But I manage to grin and say: “Finally. I was turning into a popsicle.”

Neville’s eyes are hard on mine. “You’d better fucking text me.”  
  
“No.” When he blinks: “You text me, once Sophie has gone back to her mum’s.”  
  
He nods. “It shouldn’t be more than a day or two. How long are you going to be in London?”  
  
“Until John and Sherlock give me the rights.”  
  
“You’ll be buying a house, then?”  
  
“Smartass.” I give him a friendly poke in the arm and get into the cab. Through the glass, we grin at each other like mates. But I can feel him burning on my lips, all the way back to Park Lane.

 

* * *

 

Kisses are all very well, but the fucking heater in the cab is broken. By the time I’m back at the hotel, I can’t feel my toes. I throw a handful of notes at the driver and hustle up to my room. I run for the shower, shedding clothes as I go.

I turn the shower faucet to just below boiling, but I’m still shivering under the pitiful stream of water. Thirty-eight hundred pounds a night, and the showerhead isn’t even a waterfall.   _And_ the water pressure sucks. Fucking London.  

I think of the shower at my place in Malibu. Ceiling-mounted rainfall jets, plus ten mini jets on the walls. The water pressure is so good, you could wash a Buick in there. You’d have space, too. Acres of glass subway tiles, not an inch of marble in sight. Goddamn, I miss my shower.

I shouldn’t have come back here. So many nice cities in the world, ones that don’t do the things London does to me. Cities where I don’t start the evening expecting to get righteously laid, and end up playing Barbies with cat hair on my shirt. I’m too depressed to even jerk off.

Of course I jerk off. I don’t enjoy it much, but it’s the principle of the thing. _Take that, London_ , I think, watching my spunk swirl down the drain.

I step out of the shower and into my favorite pair of pajamas: slouchy grey lounge pants and a navy hoodie. It looks like something you could pick up at Abercrombie & Fitch, except it’s Italian cashmere and costs the same as the monthly rent on a nice Westwood apartment.

I lie on the bed, staring up at Audrey in her Capri pants. I tap the duvet, making nervous dents in its smooth surface. I’m not sleepy and I’m not hungry. I don’t want to watch a movie, and I’ve already jerked off. I have a phone full of numbers, but there’s nobody I want to talk to.

Well— 

He picks up on the first ring. Of course he’s awake.

“Well?”  
  
“Nope.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“Kid.”  
  
“Pity.”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
I hear ice cubes clink as Mycroft takes a drink. I know exactly where he is. Sitting in the pink wing chair in the master bedroom, having a nightcap. A kitty on his lap—the fluffy one—and Jane Austen on the table by the chair. He reads her in publication order, a few chapters a night. He was finishing _Pride and Prejudice_ at Christmas, which means he’s up to _Mansfield Park_ by now. I’m doing him a favor, interrupting that one. Fanny Price is the worst.

“The custody arrangement is the second and fourth weekend of every month,” he says.

“Family emergency. You could have told me about the wife and kid.”  
  
“I tried.”  
  
“I didn’t want to see his fucking vaccination records. But it wasn’t fun, having Angie barge in. She almost caught me with my dick down Neville’s throat.”  
  
“So you did seduce him.”  
  
“I didn’t finish. Doesn’t count.”  
  
“That’s debatable,” he says. “I suppose it doesn’t matter. Sherlock and John have reconciled.”  
  
“Are we talking a nice little chat, or full penetration?”  
  
“Oh, the reconciliation has been consummated. Loudly and repeatedly.”

I catch the edge in Mycroft’s voice and grin. “So you’ve spent the evening listening to our little brother commit loud, repeated sodomy. Sucks to be you.”  
  
“The end justifies the means. John will certainly marry him now.”

“I hope so. The way they’re going, somebody’s gonna get pregnant.”  
  
Mycroft is smirking. Other people wouldn’t be able to tell, but I can. “At least the children will be attractive, if Nero is any indication,” he says.

“Nero looks like his mum. I checked out her website—did you know it’s still up?”  
  
“I think he favors his father’s side of the family.”  
  
“But you’ve ordered the DNA test anyway, right?”  
  
“Of course. Julia is seeing to it.”  
  
I walk to the minibar. I open it and take out a ten-quid bottle of Evian. I have a big swallow, but my throat still feels dry.   Sophie better not have given me that fucking cold. I clear my throat.    

“So the socially awkward hero will marry his sassy little soulmate. It’s _Pride and Prejudice_ with fewer bonnets.” I sigh. “Send me the invite. I’ll dig up a morning coat somewhere.”  

“Oh, you can’t come to the wedding.”  
  
“What? Why?”  
  
“You can’t be publically associated with the family.”  
  
“Why the fuck not?”  
  
“The revelation that you’re Sherlock’s brother would increase the media furor by a factor of 10.”  
  
“Sherlock can use all the good press he can get right now. Anyway, everyone will find out when the movie goes into pre-production. That’s an angle no publicist could resist.”

“You know very well that there isn’t going to be a movie.”  
  
I hear plastic crackle as I squeeze the Evian bottle. “I do not know that. The Sherlock movie is getting made, Mike. With or without your dubious assistance.”  
  
“I’m afraid I can’t allow it.”  
  
“You can’t _what?”_  
  
More ice rattling, as Mycroft takes another meditative sip. “You’ve teased Sherlock mercilessly. He probably deserved it, all things considered. But now it’s time for you to find something else to do. Personally, I think your best course of action would be to return to Los Angeles.”

“I’m not going back to L.A. Not yet.”  
  
“Go to Paris, then. Or Perdition. I don’t care. But you’ve worn out your welcome in London.”  
  
“I’m a citizen. Did you forget that?”  
  
“Yes,” Mycroft says, sounding annoyed. “When Father made it so easy for you to emigrate. You should have taken American citizenship years ago.”

_The boy can go to California. But make this clear to him, Violet. Whatever he does in America, he won’t do it with my name. As far as I’m concerned, he does not exist._

_He’s your son, Siger. Don’t you even care?_

_I have a son. He’s in his room working on his application to Oxford. That creature who fled the country two days ago? You’re welcome to him._

Mum didn’t have to tell me what Father said. I was listening in on another phone, cowering in the spare bedroom of her house in Sydney. It was such a relief when I realized he was going to let me go. When he finished speaking, I ran to the loo and vomited. From relief.

I rub my eyes. They’re fucking killing me. The cold, no doubt. I try to focus.

“This isn’t just about the movie. You want me out of the way. Why?”  
  
“Because you’re an unknown factor. I’ve quite enough of those to contend with at present.”  
  
“Like what?” When he doesn’t answer: “Please. With all the hacking that goes on in L.A., do you really think my phone isn’t as secure as yours?”  
  
“Very well. It’s Moriarty. He’s resurfaced in London; I was informed not 15 minutes ago.”  
  
“Great. Get to it.”  
  
“Pardon?”  
  
“Putting a bullet in his brain.  Though poison would be more poetic. Hemlock, maybe.”  
  
“Don’t be a fool. James Moriarty isn’t to be touched.”  
  
“Says who?”  
  
Silence again. I roll my eyes. “Who’s got the big chair now? Siviter, right? Doesn’t matter: This isn’t about your current boss. The old man’s been dead 15 fucking years, and you’re still playing the good son. It’s pathetic.”

“Have you ever killed anyone?” Mycroft snaps.  
  
“No, I can’t put a gun to Moriarty’s head. But the movie is getting made. The world is going to know the truth about that flaming fruitcake, and there’s not a damn thing you can do about it.”

“Are you really so naive?”

“I know there’s plenty you _could_ do. But you won’t.”

“No,” he says, after a pause. “I can’t destroy you.”

Anyone else would think the words were a capitulation. But I know better. I heard the ever-so-slight emphasis on the last word. “Mycroft,” I say softly, “what the fuck?”  
  
“Bijan Patel,” he says. “The man has come a long way, hasn’t he? It would be a pity if he were to lose it all. But he’s brought it on himself, I suppose. Cannabis _is_ illegal.”

I sink down on the bed. It takes me a minute to choke out words. “You can’t—how did you—”

“It’s one of my habits, surveillance. You know how far back the habit goes. What did I see on CCTV the other day? You and your old friend Jan, having coffee. He should have been more careful when he gave you the cannabis. Quite a large quantity. I can only assume he’s growing with intent to distribute. Very serious, if he’s convicted. The crime carries a life sentence.”

My throat is bone-dry, but a sea of Evian wouldn’t help. “You’d destroy a good man. For this.”  
  
“If Bijan is destroyed, it will be your fault. So choose, Sherrinford.   Your film or your friend.”

It’s not a choice. Mycroft doesn’t give choices.   I know where he picked _that_ habit up.

When I fled England 25 years ago, I left Jan to face the music. I’m not proud of the fact, but pure terror took over. I was on an airplane flying somewhere over North Africa before I realized what I’d done. I called Jan from Mummy’s house, my throat as Sahara-like as it is right now. Relief washed over me like a warm rain when I heard his voice on the crackly long-distance line.

My father’s snobbery is what saved Jan. He wouldn’t believe that an Indian boy from Croydon could have any agency. Most of the blame was put on me, but Jan still got fired. The life he’s made since then is a good life. He can’t lose everything because he was stupid enough to stay friends with me. I won’t let that happen. It doesn’t mean I have to like it, though.

 _“You motherfucking piece of shit,”_ I spit into the phone. “You’re going to fucking regret—”

Mycroft hangs up.

I almost hurl the phone at the wall. It’s a near thing. But I really like this phone, and it would be a bitch to replace it while I’m overseas. Instead, I set it gently on the nightstand.

I go back into the bathroom, rubbing my eyes. Okay, that’s it: No more contacts tonight. I blink the lenses out and put them in the plastic case. The world goes blurry, and I fumble in the toiletry bag for my specs. The frames are Gucci, but I only wear them when it’s absolutely necessary.

I glimpse my visage in the mirror, and I stick my tongue out. Hello, Sherrinford. Thirty fucking years, and you’re still a skinny geek with glasses. Still letting Mycroft win.

I don’t know why I talk to my brother. Our conversations are never to my benefit.

When Mycroft called in June, I was at the salon. I only answered because I was tired of hearing Enrico bitch about his new twinkie boyfriend. Mycroft was calm, but he spoke fast. He wanted to tell me before I saw the footage on the internet. Also calm, I thanked him. Then I walked out of the salon with Rico’s foils still in my hair. The next thing I remember is seeing Thandie walk into my office. She was moving carefully: There was a lot of broken glass around. I’d smashed all the cases that held my awards. Scratched the hell out of my Best Director Oscar.

_My God, Ford. What are you doing?_

_Sherlock is dead, Thandie. My baby brother is dead, and it’s on fucking YouTube._

I sometimes wonder how it would have been if I’d stayed in London. If Sherlock would have called from where he’d hidden himself, and told me he was alive. Maybe the fall wouldn’t have happened if I’d stayed. Moriarty wouldn’t have happened.  

If I’d remained my father’s son, if I’d taken the power he offered—but it was a Devil’s bargain. Mycroft, with his endless appetite, could swallow it. I couldn’t.

I don’t hate my brother. If I had the power, I wouldn’t destroy him. But that doesn’t mean I’ll let him win. If I can’t make the Sherlock movie, there are other stories I can tell.

I wink at the bespectacled bloke in the mirror. He winks back. Hello Sherrinford, you handsome devil. No wonder Mummy always liked you best.

I hear my phone ring. I walk into the other room and look at my text messages.

**Angie called. Picking up Sophie Tues. afternoon. Drinks Tues. eve?—NS**

I put the phone down. I don’t have time to think about getting laid. I have work to do.

I grab my iPad from the dresser. Sitting cross-legged on the sofa in the lounge area, I bring up the e-book files. The book I’m looking for just came out in ePub and Kindle formats. People have been asking for Violet Vernet for ages, but I’ve been reluctant. Digital piracy is so out of control, but I finally relented. It was my decision: Mum left me her rights to do with as I like.  

I tap the icon for _Dagger of the Mind_. Violet Vernet’s darkest book, next to _The Shadow Son._ This is much later in her canon, though. By the time it came out, I was all grown up. So was Mycroft. Maybe that’s why Mummy didn’t feel any scruples about bringing back the character of Michael Houseman. Adult Michael is even more unsympathetic than child Michael: cold, vicious, manipulative. A ruthless killer without remorse, just like his father Sander made him.  

Violet was very hard on the Housemans. The oldest boy, Sheridan, comes off okay, but Sander and Michael are monsters. Even little Sheldon, in his few brief scenes, seems like a real weirdo. You could feel sorry for them, but I don’t. I don’t feel sorry for the Holmeses, either.

My phone buzzes again, but I ignore it. I settle back on the comfy sofa and tap the screen until I get to the table of contents. Michael won’t show up for ten chapters, but that’s okay. The book is a page-turner all the way through: Mummy was very talented. There’s power in a good story, she taught me that. I’m her son, thank fucking God.

There’s a real freedom in not being a Holmes. I’ve learned to enjoy not existing. As I bring up Chapter One, I’m grinning.


	56. Chapter 56

** Neville 11 January 2013 **

John is looking fantastic. His taste in clothes is still atrocious (a yellow and black stripy jumper, Jesus wept), but his eyes are bright and there’s color in his cheeks. The hand that’s given him so much trouble is as steady as a rock, holding the pudgy baby balanced on his knee. On the fourth finger of that same hand is a gleaming platinum ring, brand-new. 

“So,” I say. “Married life agrees with you.”  
  
“It’s all right.” John looks around the lounge. “I’m more excited to be back at Baker Street.”  
  
“Don’t play coy with me, Doctor. You’ve got that I’ve-been-shagging-myself-silly glow of satisfaction. Next thing you know, Nero will have a little brother or sis.” 

I wave at the baby. He goggles big grey eyes at me, but keeps chewing the head of his bear.

“One’s enough, thanks,” John says. “Did I tell you what Sherlock and I did last night?”

“Does it involve handcuffs and anal beads?”  
  
“Hardly. Nero was up to all hours teething. We tried everything we could think of; I’d have given him bloody anal beads to chew on if I thought it would help. Then Sherlock decided that what Nero really needed was his bear back.” John flicks the ratty toy, and Nero frowns at him. “We turned the fucking house upside down, looking.”  
  
“I noticed the famous bear had been recovered. Where was it?”  
  
“Back garden. Faust had buried it, along with the bones of a dozen small defenseless creatures. Nice to know I’m living with a serial killer. Anyway, we popped the bear in the washer and it came out good as new. Nero was over the moon.   He stopped fussing for ten whole minutes.”

John’s tone is snarky, but he gives the baby a good bounce. Nero giggles and waves his arms. The bear falls to the floor, but before Nero can even work up a sob, John has picked up the toy and popped it back in the baby’s hands, neat as you please.  

I glance around the room. “Worse come to worse, you could have given him one of the others. You’re rather spoiled for choice, mate.”

The lounge at 221-B Baker Street has always been an odd collection of bits and bobs. Union Jack pillows and spray-painted smiley faces, Austen first editions and leering skulls. But in the past few days, a new element has been added to the décor: stuffed animals. Grinning monkeys and woolly lambs, fuzzy bunnies and wistful puppies, piled on every available surface. Most are tiny enough to fit in one hand, but there are exceptions. The bow-tied bear in the corner is so big, you could use it as a body pillow. I feel its beady eyes burning holes in the back of my head.

“This is all your doing,” John says. “You had to go telling the fans that Nero lost his woobie. Now I’m cleaning the entire contents of Hamleys toy shop off the front steps each morning.”  
  
“It seemed like a cute story at 3 AM.”  
  
“Posting drunk again, were we?”  
  
“If you want to call eight Heinekens and three Stoli shots _drunk.”_  
  
I’m given a disapproving look. “Nev—”

“Oh, shut up. Not everybody is an old married man.”  
  
John and Sherlock got married on Monday. They did it as quietly as possible, but somehow the paparazzi found out. The pictures hit the web not five minutes after they left the registry office, Sherlock elegantly cool in a blue Prada suit, John rumpled as ever in a nylon jacket several sizes too big. But their expressions of glowing happiness were identical. In the clearest pic, Mycroft is standing to their right and Danica is to their left, holding the baby. Mycroft looks smug and Dani looks irritated—Nero just puked on her blouse. But it’s a really cute picture.

“You know I would’ve liked to have you at the wedding,” John says. “But it just—happened.”

“Oh God, don’t worry. I didn’t even want to go to my own wedding.”  
  
“I wish Harry felt the same way. She wants to throw us a reception. A _reception_. Roses and champagne and sodding speeches. I told her a butch dyke should know better, and she threw a shoe at my head.”  
  
“Lesbians. So angry.” I shudder. “Anyway, I’m very happy for you both. Well—for you. Sherlock is still a cock.”  
  
“You can’t expect a wedding to change that,” John says, grinning. 

“A brain transplant wouldn’t change that. A Holmes is a Holmes. Fucking Martians.” I nod at Nero. “Don’t be surprised if this one starts growing tentacles.”

“Uh-huh,” John says. “Ford still hasn’t texted, has he?”  
  
“No.” I shrug. “I don’t care.”

I don’t care so much, I had eight beers and three shots on Tuesday night. Got so bladdered, I almost texted Stuart from the Disney Store. Thank God I passed out first. Last night I went to the Shadow Lounge, where I snogged a Harry Potter lookalike in the loo. Not my finest hour, but at least I didn’t let him blow me. Even sloppy drunk, I don’t get head from 17-year-olds.

“Fine,” I spit. “I care.”  
  
“Just text him yourself.”

“I did. Repeatedly.”

“He didn’t reply?”  
  
“Not so much as an emoticon.”

“Fuck him, then.” When I don’t answer: “Seriously. It was just a fling, right?”

“It’s all my fault,” I say. “I should never have made Ford look after Sophie.”  
  
“There was no cat litter. What were you supposed to do?”  
  
“How about calling a fucking grocery delivery service?”

“That would have been a good idea,” John admits. “Why didn’t you?”  
  
“I don’t know! I wasn’t that stoned. Now Ford thinks I’m some lunatic who lures men up to my flat for free babysitting. Nobody wants to shag a loony, J.”  
  
“I dunno. I heard somewhere that loonies make the best shags.”  
  
I have to grin at that. “Fuck off. I’m sending you one of those sodding t-shirts.”      

“Already have one.” John sighs. “The big bear was wearing it when he arrived.”

“Bears are great shags,” I say gloomily. “The head bartender at the Shadow Lounge: Luke something, six-foot-five, 16 stone of solid muscle, hairy back. Shagging him is like getting molested by a really hot wookie. He tried to take me home last night, but did I go? No.”

“Why not?”  
  
I scrape hands down my face. “I thought Ford might come by the flat.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake. Are you listening to yourself?”  
  
“I know I’m insane! But despite the popular wisdom, Ford Huxley does not want to shag this crazy person. It’s a crap state of affairs.” 

John pinches the bridge of his nose. “Bloody hell. You’ve gotten attached.”  
  
“I wouldn’t go that far—”

“You think I don’t know what it’s like to fall for a Martian? But it took me years. You’ve spent all of five hours in Ford’s company. You stood him up Saturday, and come Thursday you were blowing off Hot Chewbacca on the chance he’d visit. How the fuck is that possible?”

Nero gives a worried cry at the angry voice. John bounces him until Nero is happily chewing again. Then he continues speaking, in a much softer voice. But his gaze is close on my face.

“So, Nev. How long have you been in love with Ford Huxley?”  
  
“Five days.” I rake hands through my hair. “Twelve years.”  
  
 _“What?”_

I get up from my chair. I go over to the bookshelf where the TV is, and I look beside it. There aren’t many movies, but the one I want is there. I pick it up. “ _Brave New World_. Ever seen it?”

“Everybody’s seen that movie.”  
  
“Yeah, it’s the one that really put Ford on the map. Shocking, right? You remember what it was like 12 years ago. You didn’t see gay sex outside of porn and maybe a few indie films. But Ford changed everything with _Brave New World_. That scene at the start of the movie with Helmholtz and Bernard? It’s not in the book. The dialogue is, but not the sex. When Helmholtz is bitching about his job and Bernard just falls to his knees and starts sucking him off—it seemed so _normal._ Then they made love right on Bernard’s sofa. It blew my fucking mind.”

I can see it like I’m there, sitting in the movie theater with Angie. My face was bright red; she thought I was embarrassed. When the film was over, she teased me about being a prude. But I wasn’t flushed from embarrassment. It was an amazing world Ford had made, all steel and glass and light. A world of people—men—who could do anything. Those men did everything, and it was beautiful. It made me so angry at first. It’s not an easy thing, watching your deepest desires come to life. To be made to see, in one eye-searing moment, what you really are.    

“I saw the movie five times in the theater,” I say. “The first time was with Angie, then three times alone. The last time, I brought my mate Charlie. He was great. Gay as a maypole, but I didn’t mind. I was _open-minded_. Charlie and I sat in that theater, and we watched Helmholtz and Bernard. Then we—” I stop. “Then we went back to Charlie’s and screwed our brains out.”

Charlie was gay, and he was beautiful. Angie even commented on it, how much he looked like Helmholtz: talk, dark, chiseled. Such a shame, she said, that a man who looks like that doesn’t like girls. I said, maybe he just hasn’t met the right girl. 

Charlie had met someone. He was waiting for someone. Two long years, he waited for me.

“What did you do then?” John asks. “What happened to Charlie?”  
  
“I told him never to call me again. I said I’d kill him. Then I went home and showered. After I washed Charlie off, I went to my girlfriend’s house. And I proposed.”

I sit down in the squashy leather chair, leaning forward, hands on my knees. “I cut Charlie dead, but I couldn’t kill the feelings. I watched all of Ford’s movies, even his early stuff. I must have seen _In Between Days_ a hundred times. That’s the one about the gay kid who steals money and runs away to L.A.? It’s Ford’s first film. He had a budget of 50 cents, but it’s fucking brilliant.

“I read everything about Ford I could get my hands on. I watched videos of his interviews online. He was getting a lot of press because of _Brave New World_ , and I found all of it. I couldn’t stop. His movies—it felt like he made them just for me.”

I sigh and sit back. “I sound like one of those people who leave teddy bears on your front steps.”

John is silent a minute, bouncing Nero pensively. I must look sad myself, because the baby is also staring at me. Finally he holds out his bear, with the air of one conferring a great favor.

“Thanks very much,” I tell him. “But that’s not the woobie I’m looking for.”

Nero gives me a peevish look. He snatches the bear back and starts chewing on its leg.

“You acted like you hated Ford,” John says. “Was it all for show?”  
  
“After he sicced his lawyers on me? Absolutely not. That’s why I stood him up at the Shadow Lounge. I’d decided he was an asshole, and I only liked his films. But now—fuck.”

I curl my hands into fists. “I had him, J. He was on my sofa, trousers down. I _had_ him.” I open my hands. “Now I don’t. He’ll go back to America, and I’ll go back to shagging bartenders and writing drunken blog posts.”

John rolls his eyes. “Don’t be so melodramatic. He’s meeting Sherlock at Speedy’s for lunch. Not sure why, it seems he’s lost interest in making a film about us. He’s onto one of his mum’s books now, taking meetings or something. But if you want to talk to him, here’s your chance.”

“ _No_.” I shake my head vigorously. “I’ve already made an idiot out of myself. I’m not going to chase him around like a bloody stalker. I saw that article in the _Hollywood Reporter_ yesterday. If Ford is really committed to _Dagger of the Mind_ , none of this matters. Do you know he doesn’t have sex when he’s working on a movie?”  
  
“I heard. What the fuck?”  
  
“Martians: Their ways are not our ways. But since I don’t feel like getting my heart ripped out by sodding tentacles, I’m going to gracefully withdraw before he gets here.” I get up.

“Wait a sec,” John says. “Haven’t you forgotten something?”

Despite my moaning about Ford, I’ve been having a nice chat with John. Now I’m reminded that this wasn’t a casual visit. The house is nowhere near ready for company yet, but John had a very specific reason for asking me here. The thought gives me a cold feeling in my stomach, but I try to smile. Maybe it’s not too late to distract him, determined as his purpose might be.

I wave the tail of my red-and-white scarf at him. “Danica gave it back to me when I got here. Thanks for finding it. This is the first birthday present I ever got from Sophie.”  
  
“Sorry about the holes. Sherlock was letting Faust use it as a chew toy.” Before I can roll my eyes: “But that’s not what I’m talking about.”  
  
I stick my right hand into my coat pocket. There’s a small lump there, and I clutch it nervously. “I’d hoped you forgot.”  
  
John gives me his Captain’s face. “You promised, Nev.”  
  
I snatch the lump from my pocket and toss it at him. John catches it in one hand. He stares at the flashdrive intently, then jumps to his feet. Nero gives a cry of surprise, but subsides as John tucks him securely in one arm. John sits down in one of the chairs drawn up to the table between the windows. I follow reluctantly, taking the other chair.

John pushes a plush turtle and a jolly elephant out of his way. He opens the laptop computer and sticks in the flashdrive. His fingers tap anxiously as it loads, though it only takes three seconds. He clicks the first folder, opens a file, and starts scrolling through. He gets down about ten pages and scowls at the close-printed text.

“What the hell is all this?”  
  
“Raw data. My contact is a scavenger, not an analyst.”  
  
“Have you read it?”  
  
“Every word.” I grimace. “I haven’t had anything better to do.”

“Yeah, Ford is a dick,” John says impatiently. “What does the bloody data say?”  
  
I scrub hands down my face. “Everything.” 

John stares. “You mean—”

“If Moriarty were Tokyo, that flashdrive is fucking Godzilla.”

 _“What?”_ John leans forward. “Why?”  
  
“Are the new cameras in?” I glance around. “Fuck me, I should have asked before.”  
  
“The cameras are exterior view only. I made sure. Now what about the files?”  
  
I don’t have to think hard to come up with a synopsis. I’ve been working on it since Tuesday, when the flashdrive showed up in the post. An e-mail attachment would have been quicker, but the note which came with the drive said it was too dangerous to send the data through any path which could be traced online. Enigma—true identity who the hell knows—has been plumbing the depths of the Darknet for years. If he says it’s not safe, I believe him.

I wouldn’t need much convincing. Since Moriarty poked his head up from the muck on Monday, Big Brother has most definitely been watching. I hope John is right about those cameras. Ford may not think Mycroft is dangerous, but I know better.

I wish I hadn’t told John I had the drive. But what could I do? I promised to help. It’s been hard enough putting him off for the three days it took me to look through the files. The more I looked, the more worried I got. Given this week’s media frenzy, that flashdrive is radioactive.

Moriarty started doing interviews on Tuesday. They’ve been very cleverly managed: He hasn’t said much about last year, except to say he regrets what happened. The impression he’s given is that the whole thing was a publicity stunt that got out of control, the deadly rivalry between him and Sherlock no more real than professional wrestlers slagging each other off.

Richard Brook’s Q-rating is through the roof. My contacts at the BBC told me that the offers are pouring in. Matt Smith won’t be the Doctor forever, though the way Brook is going, Hollywood isn’t out of the question. But they have no idea how good a storyteller he really is.

John is vibrating with impatience. “Nev—”

“Okay,” I sigh. “On the flashdrive are all of Jim Moriarty’s files. His _real_ files, going back to the 1970s. Birth certificate, school records, arrest reports, psychiatric evaluations—” I stop. “Just let me tell the story. You can ask questions after.”  
  
John nods, sitting back. Nero has fallen asleep in the crook of his arm. It should be a sweet image, the pleasant-faced fellow with the adorable baby drooling on his jumper. But John’s expression is not pleasant. Its all-consuming focus sends a chill down my spine.

“His real name isn’t Moriarty. That was his mother’s name, Katherine Moriarty. She was born in Dublin but moved to London as a teenager. She married an Englishman, Simon Brook, when she was 16. He was the father of her older son, Richard. James’ paternity was murkier, since he came along a year after Simon and Katie separated. She put Simon’s name on the birth certificate and sued him for maintenance, but he died before he could take a blood test. Simon was killed in a pub fight, stabbed through the eye over a football bet. That was in 1978.

“Katie found a job as a nurse’s assistant, but it didn’t last. She got sacked for stealing morphine. She wasn’t selling it, either. You can guess how things went for an unemployed addict with two small children. It didn’t take her long to go the junkie prostitute route.

“The boys were taken into care for the first time when Richie was nine and Jim was four. They were seen poking through the skips, searching for food and clothes. The wretched state of them upset the neighbors. Imagine how wretched they must have been, for people in the Aylesbury Estate, a/k/a Hell’s Waiting Room, to pay attention.

“Katie got them back a few months later, but the pattern was set. She would take care of them a while, go on a binge, and off the boys would go to foster care. They were always placed together. According to the records, Richie was protective of his little brother. The social workers saw this as a hopeful sign, even if he had been arrested multiple times by age 14. It was minor offenses, though, and he got off with probation or a few weeks in a secure training center.

“In 1988, the boys were arrested for arson. They’d set fire to an abandoned shed; a homeless man sleeping inside suffered severe burns. Maybe that was accidental, but the boys faced real consequences. Jim was sent to a secure children’s home. Hillsdown wasn’t punitive, there were lots of classes, counseling, art therapy, etc. They even gave Jim an IQ test. He scored 160. It’s the maximum the test was calibrated for, but the doctor suspected his real IQ was much higher.

“Jim also had a lot of counseling. He was showing clear signs of Emerging Severe Personality Disorder: impulsiveness and hyperactivity, a lack of empathy. He was aggressive or seductive with other children. In session, he told the doctor how he once trapped a cat and tortured it. When asked why, he said he wanted to know how much he could cut off before it died.

“But his behavior wasn’t that unusual, given his circumstances. In many cases, kids like him settle down once they’re in a stable environment. That’s what seemed to happen with Jim. In her final report, the doctor expressed optimism about his future. ‘With proper encouragement, there’s no limit to what he could accomplish,’ she wrote. After seven months, he was released.

“Jim was sent to another foster home, in Crawley. But Richie wasn’t there. There hadn’t been any youth center for him, not this time. He was sent to Feltham Prison with the other teenage repeat offenders. Two weeks after he arrived, they found him hanging in his cell. He was 15.

“Katie reclaimed Jim from foster care when he was 12. She had finally turned herself around: She was off drugs and remarried. They moved back to Ireland. Katie’s new husband, Daniel O’Brien, ran a sweet shop. He made decent money, they lived in a neat little cottage. After a year, Daniel adopted his stepson, and he became Jim O’Brien. Jim did well in school, he got along with his peers. He told a teacher he’d be applying to Cambridge for Computer Science.

“When Jim was 16, he murdered his mother and father. Daniel O’Brien was stabbed through the eye, he died instantly. There were defensive wounds on Katie’s hands: She tried to fight for her life. The neighbors heard her screams and called the police. When the cops arrived, they found her head on the TV stand, staring at them. An autopsy revealed she was three months pregnant.

“There was a massive search for Jim, but nothing was found. Five months later, a badly decayed corpse was discovered hanging in an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of Dublin. A wallet on the body identified it as James B. O’Brien. It was too far gone to take fingerprints, and there were no extant dental records. Jim apparently hated the dentist and never went. But the height and build were right, and there was the wallet. The authorities considered the case closed.

“Six months after that, Richard Brook, age 22, was employed as a service desk analyst based at GCHQ, Cheltenham. That’s IT support for spies. He passed all of the security checks just fine. Brook did quite well at his job, but within a year his position was eliminated. That was in 1996.

“After that, the records stop until 2004. What Richard Brook did during those years isn’t part of Enigma’s files. But in 2004, Brook’s credits as an actor began showing up on IMDB. In 2007, he started a three-year run as the Storyteller on CBBC. By that time, the name of Moriarty was spreading like a plague through the criminal world of London. After that—you know the rest.”

I stop, out of breath. Storytelling is hard, especially when you’re telling one that combines the grimmest parts of _Oliver Twist_ and _Silence of the Lambs_. It wasn’t fun, crawling around in the muck which spawned Moriarty. There’s more than one reason I got drunk the last few nights.

John is tapping impatiently again, staring down at the scratched wood of the table. Then he looks up. “Fingerprints,” he says. “How did GCHQ miss the fact that they didn’t match up?”

“Moriarty is a computer whiz. My assumption is he broke into the government database and made the switch. Probably did it when he scrubbed Feltham off of Richard Brook’s records.”

“The exit interview for GCHQ doesn’t mention a reason for his termination?”  
  
“No. There was no indication that anybody disliked his work. Maybe that was the point: Somebody liked it too much.”  
  
“ _Siviter,_ ” John spits. “There’s nothing on the drive about how long Moriarty worked for him?” 

“Siviter isn’t mentioned at all. Enigma is very good, but even he can’t access Siviter’s stuff.”    
  
“Who the hell is Enigma?” John says. “Can we trust him?”  
  
“Enigma is exactly that, but his intel is sound. One thing Moriarty didn’t do is alter his own records from Hillsdown, probably because it closed down in 1993 due to budget cuts. But Enigma found the file, and it includes fingerprints that match the ones taken after Moriarty’s arrest for breaking into the Tower of London. The file also has a picture.” I tap the screen.  
  
The boy in the photo has a baby-round face, and his hair is cut in an unflattering bowl. But the eyes are the ones we know, closely set and curiously flat, for all of their obsidian shine. It’s the dead-black gaze of a boa constrictor.

John stares at the photograph for a long time.

“Yes,” he whispers. “That’s him.”

He turns to me, and his eyes glittering. “We have him, Nev. We fucking _have him_.”

“Yeah,” I say, not very enthusiastically. “Enigma’s good. There’s no conjecture in the file. Nothing on Carl Powers, or the Bruhl poisonings, or any of the other crimes we know Moriarty committed, but have no proof for. The murder of the O’Briens is solid. The boy’s prints were on the knife, his body fluids were all over the scene. Sherlock can hang Moriarty with this.”  

“I’m not telling Sherlock about this.”  
  
I stare at him. “John, you must see—”

“Oh, my eyes are wide fucking open.” John jumps to his feet. Nero gives a little cry, jolted from his peaceful slumbers. John clutches the baby, bouncing him against his chest. But the move is automatic, he’s not looking at Nero.   John is staring at me, coldly furious.  
  
“When I woke up Monday morning, Sherlock was gone. He thought Moriarty was in Singapore. He was going there to kill him. Mycroft’s men stopped him at the airport and brought him back. That’s when we had the Mad bloody Tea Party at Chapel Street. I told you that part.”  
  
He did. But he left out the attempted assassination. _“Kill him?_ How do you know—”

“Because I know my husband, Neville. He thought Moriarty killed Irene, and he was convinced I was next. It took the combined efforts of me and Mycroft to calm him down.”

I flash on the wedding pictures from Monday. Sherlock didn’t look terrified, he looked happy. John was happy too, but—

“You married him to distract him,” I say slowly. “Fucking hell.”  
  
“I married him because I wanted to,” John says. “But the timing of the ceremony was crucial. You may not have noticed, but Sherlock isn’t rational on the subject of Jim Moriarty.”

He sits down. He picks up Nero’s bear from the table and makes it do a little dance. The baby claps his hands, enchanted. John gives him the bear, and Nero stuffs it in his mouth.

“They’re not much different, father and son,” John says. “They want what they want, and they don’t want anything else. It can leave one feeling chewed up, but I don’t mind. I’d endure more than that to keep Sherlock safe. I’ve nagged him, and I’ve shagged him, and I’ve fucking married him. Which is why we’re not showing him the file. All that work isn’t going to waste.”  
  
“You’re right,” I say. “Our best bet would be to go to the proper authorities.”

“You must be joking. The authorities who let Moriarty go last spring, after he was caught red-handed in the Tower? The ones who banged Sherlock up on charges while that lunatic danced free? The ones who tried to have Sherlock arrested for murder on Sunday?”  
  
Mindful of the baby, John has kept his voice even. But he’s pale with rage.

“If Lestrade had been willing to repay a tenth of what Sherlock has done for him, St. Barts would never have happened. Fuck him and the Met. I’m done with the proper authorities.”

John turns to the laptop. “It was so 20th Century, Moriarty using the tabloids, making that sad bitch Kitty Riley into his mouthpiece. Sod the redtops! We’re putting the story online.”  
  
I shake my head vigorously. “We can’t put this on the blog. Mycroft was clear about that.”  
  
He came by Tuesday morning. Sophie and I were on the sofa, eating Coco Pops and watching _Scooby Doo_. For a happy second I thought it was Ford—the silhouettes aren’t totally dissimilar. Mycroft is less charming than Ford, but he’s more polite than Sherlock. He perched on one of my kitchen stools, sipping the coffee I made. My daughter offered him a Jammie Dodger, and he took it with a smile. After Sophie skipped off to finish her cartoon, he told me the reason for his visit. He phrased his request like a man asking a favor, but I’m no idiot. His eyes watched me like Sarge watches one of Sophie’s dolls, just before he drags it away and chews its head off.

I grab John’s wrist. “There’s supposed to be a truce. You can’t break it. Not like this.”

“That’s true,” John says. “It might look suspicious if we used our blogs. We’ll start at Reddit or maybe 4chan. We don’t have to show them all the files. Just the tip of the iceberg is enough: You know how it is once those boys start digging. The story will go viral from there. Sherlock and I have 50 million hits at YouTube. How many do you think Moriarty will get?”  
  
John gives me a deadly smile. “Even if he evades the murder charges, it won’t matter. Let him try to have an acting career, once the world knows he’s a cat-torturing, mummy-murdering chav. Let him try to go anywhere, be _anything_ , with Anonymous on his ass. The internet will tear him to pieces. It’s going to be fucking beautiful.”    

“Then he won’t have anything to lose. What do you think he’ll do then?”

“He’ll try to kill me,” John says. “But he was going to do that anyway. He killed Irene.”  
  
“We don’t know that.”  
  
“Sure we do. The assassins waited for Sherlock to leave the house. They weren’t very good—they didn’t even send someone to follow him. That’s why Irene, alone and in a panic, was able to kill one of them. Sherlock got two more when he came back. They almost cut her head off. They would have done it, if Sherlock hadn’t interrupted them. If he’d arrived 20 minutes later, how would he have found her? Staring at him from the TV stand, that’s how.”

I put a hand to my throat. “Jesus.”  
  
“Who else would try that on Christmas? I bet even Jools Siviter takes the day off. Moriarty wanted to ruin the day. Ruining things is what he does.”

“He didn’t ruin Sherlock.” I look at John seriously. “If Moriarty sends assassins after you—”  
  
“He can’t take the chance of another fuck-up. He’ll handle this one himself, but I’ll be waiting for him. I’ve been waiting months, Nev. Moriarty is going to die.”

John doesn’t say this in a boastful way. He isn’t boasting. I know John has killed people. He told me about Kandahar one night, after a few too many Jäger shots. He shot three men in ten seconds, and then he shagged the hell out of the Yank sniper who gave him the gun.

He shot Jeff Hope. He’s never said, but I know. It’s easy to see if you read the story carefully. He shot Hope dead, and then he and Sherlock had dim sum.

I get up and go to the right-hand window. I can see the front steps from here. They’re already covered with a half-a-dozen new stuffed animals, plus lots of other rubbish—collages, candles, lacy knickers. Not all of it’s for Sherlock. The fans love John. He’s a total husband fantasy: sweet, solid, dependable. If they really knew him, I wonder if they would still love him.

Why not? I do.

“Months,” I say softly. “That was the point of all our editorials. Luring Moriarty into the open.” I’m disappointed, but I’m not surprised. I know John very well.

“Your help has meant so much to me,” John says. “I’m sorry about lying, but it had to be done. Moriarty must be stopped. The proper authorities can’t, or won’t. Sherlock can’t be involved.”  
  
“Why not? He’s the genius. Moriarty is _his_ sodding nemesis. At least let him help.”  
  
I turn around. John is looking down at the sleeping child in his arms. Carefully, he plucks the bear out of Nero’s mouth so the baby can’t choke on it.  

“He’s fragile,” John says. “The coat and the attitude throw people off, but he is. Especially now, after Irene. He feels too much; it’s why Moriarty hates him. The truce is bullshit, I can’t believe Mycroft has fallen for it. Maybe it won’t happen this year. But someday, Moriarty will come for me, and Nero, and anyone else Sherlock loves. He has to ruin him. It’s all he wants.”

John looks up at me. His mouth is turned down in a gentle frown. But his eyes are stone.

“I married Sherlock on Monday,” he says. “I loved him for three solid years, but I didn’t want people to know I’m queer. I don’t give a shit anymore. I may be a nancy, but I’m not a pussy. I’m going to out Moriarty for the psychopath he is. Then I’m going to kill him.”

“I understand why you want that,” I tell him. “But Mycroft and Jools Siviter—”

“I’m Mycroft’s brother-in-law. That means a lot to him. I didn’t know how much until Monday. Shit, I think he was happier about the wedding than I was. He’ll yell at me, but I’ll survive. As for Siviter, what’s he going to do? Mycroft won’t let him kill me or put me in jail. He can’t ruin my reputation, I don’t have any dirty secrets.” John holds up his ring hand. “Not anymore.”  
  
“What if Moriarty kills you?” I sit back at the table, gripping his hand. “Nobody can be hypervigilant all the time. If you die, Sherlock will lose his mind. You said so yourself.”

“I’m not going to die,” John says impatiently. “Moriarty isn’t as smart as he thinks he is.”  
  
“At least give it some thought. Moriarty isn’t an immediate threat, he’s having too much fun being Richard Brook right now. Even with all the publicity he’s getting, you and Sherlock are winning. The fans like you two better than him—you should read the RPS fics. Wait, no, don’t read those. But everything is going just fine. You can take some time and think it over.” When John’s brow wrinkles:   “I’ve helped you in every way I can think of. I even gave you the files against my better judgment. You can give me this much.”

“All right,” John says, after a pause. “I will think about it. But you have to promise not to say anything to Sherlock. Or Ford, for that matter. We know that one is up to no good.”

“Sherlock hates me and Ford’s forgotten about me. I don’t think it will be a problem.”

I stand up, suddenly eager to be gone from Baker Street. I love John, but his personal dramas have been dominating my life for months. Also, that giant teddy bear is really creeping me out.

I pat John’s shoulder and pinch Nero’s cheek. Then I go downstairs. I head for the back door instead of the front. It’s only just noon, so Ford isn’t due yet. But no sense taking chances.

Maybe it’s good that he never texted me. Look at what’s happened to John, getting involved with a Holmes. I don’t want to turn into an alien: Green skin wouldn’t suit me at all.  
  
I open the door, a blast of cold air hitting me in the face. I wrap my scarf tighter around my neck and head up the steps that lead to the garden. I hear raised voices, and I stop dead.

Normally it wouldn’t faze me. People are always coming and going at Baker Street. Especially now, with Danica and Julia setting up Nero’s nursery, and Mycroft’s people putting the finishing touches on the security system. There’s also the fan presence lurking around, lacy knickers and stuffed animals in its sweaty paws. But fans don’t scream like that. Not in French, anyway.

Mycroft and Ford are standing in the garden, facing each other like two well-dressed gunslingers. Mycroft is in Gieves & Hawkes (I think) and Ford is wearing a stunning Burberry overcoat with a rich fur collar. But the rage on their faces is savage. My French isn’t as fluent as theirs, but it isn’t bad. I can make out most of what’s being said, though there’s a lot of weird slang and some phrases I’m fairly sure are bastardized Latin. Pure Martian, but I can follow it. I wish I couldn’t.

I go back down the steps and put my hand on the doorknob. That’s when I realize the door has locked behind me. I stand at the bottom of the steps, wondering what to do.


	57. Chapter 57

** Ford 11 January 2013 **

_Thirty minutes earlier_

This week has been crazy busy, which means lunch with Sherlock has turned into brunch with Sherlock. It took some juggling to get even that to work out, which is why it’s ironic that now we’re both just sitting here, checking messages. At least Sherlock is eating, eyes glued to his phone, while I’m scrolling on my iPad. Then something catches my gaze, and I scan it fast.

“I’m afraid they’re right. The pants were too long.”  
  
“Whafmp?” Sherlock says, around a mouthful of chicken-and-bacon wrap.

I turn my iPad around so he can see.

**Congrats to John Watson and Sherlock Holmes, our favorite ambiguously gay duo. You bitter kittens know how long we’ve been following their drama, so imagine how thrilled we were to find out that Sherlock isn’t dead (though we’ll never forgive him for faking— _who does that_?). Now he and John have made official what we all knew even before YouTube got involved, and married the shit out of each other in London this week. Mazel tov, boys!**

**Because we’re evil bitches, we must stomp all over their wedded bliss and tell them they’ve messed up again. Darlings, even if you have spent all week screwing in impossible positions (Thanks, John, for the mental picture!), it’s no excuse for those outfits.**

**Sherlock, you almost make that blue Prada work, even if the pants are an inch too long. The cheekbones make up for a lot, and we adore your poet’s curls. But _nothing_ makes up for the shoes. It looks like you snagged them out of the 99-cent bin at Payless. **

**Dear John: Who doesn’t love a bantam badass? You were already on your third warning with those ugly sweaters, though. The nylon jacket two sizes too big adds insult to injury.**

**Look, lads, we love you. You know we do. _But this was your wedding_. Registry office or no, some effort was called for. In 20 years, what are you going to tell that adorable son of yours? “Sorry, kiddo. Daddy and I couldn’t be bothered. Too much shagging to do.” **

**For Nero’s sake, we demand a second wedding with proper suits. When you address our invitation, just remember: It’s T-O-M and L-O-R-E-N-Z-O. We’re gift-wrapping your crockpot as we speak!**

Sherlock stares like it’s written in Linear A. “What is this?”  
  
“It’s TLo, you luddite. The greatest fashion bloggers since Go Fug Yourself went corporate.”

“Why do they write in that ridiculous way?”

“Because it’s funny. Which is why their blog has 7 million visitors a month and _The Science of Deduction_ has 12. I love TLo, even if they said I looked like a Vegas pimp at the Oscars. That was vintage Lanvin! Singer has gotten fat and Clooney can’t find a tux that fits, but I’m the one getting shit. I’m not taking chances this year: Let’s see those bitches find fault with Valentino.”

Sherlock scrolls down rapidly. “This is insane. Seven million people obsessing over such trivial—” he shoves the iPad back at me. “My trousers weren’t too long. It was the angle.”

“If you say so. The shoes were bad from all sides, though.”

He clutches his head in his hands. “This is intolerable. I just want to be left alone.”  
  
“You should have thought of that before you jumped off the roof.”

Sherlock gives me a poisonous look. “Why are you here, Ford? I know it’s not the food.”

I look down at the crumbs on my plate. “Shakti’s pomegranate scones are amazing.”

“You ate one bite of scone. The rest was torn to bits while you nattered on about whether you’re casting Hemsworth or Hiddleston in your new film. I suggest Hiddleston, by the way. Nobody is going to believe Hemsworth as a Cambridge professor who gets in over his head. Though by the look of him, Hiddleston eats even less than you do. He’d probably be a bad influence.”

I give Sherlock’s plate a pointed stare. “Word to the wise, baby brother. The camera adds 10 pounds. John can run around like a homeless hobbit, but you’re supposed to be the hot one.”

“What does that mean?”  
  
“It means get your bloody trousers hemmed. And lay off the bacon.”  
  
Sherlock takes a big bite of his sandwich, staring at me all the while.

“Okay, smartass. When people start mistaking you for Mycroft, don’t come whining to me.”

Sherlock swallows. “I do enjoy our little chats. But you still haven’t told me why you’re here.”  
  
“To say goodbye. I’m leaving London tomorrow morning. Never to return, if I’m lucky.”

“Oh,” Sherlock says, blinking. “You won’t be filming in England, then?”  
  
“Fuck no! That would cost a fortune. Also, it sucks here. I’ll probably go to Prague.”

Sherlock takes a sip of water, seeming to consider. “I’m relieved you’ve lost interest in John’s blog. But I’m curious about what changed your mind.”  
  
“I realized there isn’t a cohesive story there. Not now, with you married with baby and Moriarty hamming it up on every chat show. As third acts go, that’s pretty lame.” I push crumbs around, thinking. “You might make a good TV series. But an American network would never go for the London thing. Or the gay thing. I guess I could make Watson a woman, set it in New York or something— _no_. That would be stupid.”

“I wonder if you’ve considered the repercussions of filming Mother’s book.”  
  
“Repercussions? Like me winning lots more Oscars and having to buy a new trophy case?”

“Mycroft won’t like it.”  
  
I grin. “Philip Seymour Hoffman would be a great Michael Houseman. He’s got that sluglike quality I’m looking for. Not sure if he can do an English accent, though. Also, the smack habit is kind of a problem. Maybe Toby Jones, though he’s more pig than slug. What do you think?”

“I think you’re being deliberately cruel, for some reason. _The Shadow Son_ was bad enough, but at least you downplayed the Michael Houseman plot and concentrated on Sander. Father wasn’t alive to be affected, but Mycroft—he’s unhappy about this new film. Very unhappy.”

I lean forward. “He said that?”  
  
“No, but it’s easy to deduce his feelings. Who wouldn’t be upset at being portrayed as a debauched psychopath? At the very least, I hope you’ll cut the scene in the Thai brothel.”  
  
“The brothel scene is the best part. Well, that and the thing between Professor Fine and his secretary: Sex on a train is so Hitchcock. What do you think of Jen Lawrence for Maddy? But she’s going to win the Oscar next month, so she probably won’t get naked for my movie. Emma Watson might. She’s hungry for a real adult role. Who wouldn’t want to see Hermione’s tits?”  

Sherlock narrows his eyes. “Ford—”  

“Oh stop. Mycroft has way more important things on his mind than my movie. Babysitting you is a full-time job. Maybe he can go part-time now, though.” I nod at the new ring on Sherlock’s finger. “Platinum was an excellent choice. But the milgrain edging is a bit much.”  
  
“Is this about the wedding?” Sherlock says. “I would have texted you, but there wasn’t time.”

“At the last wedding I went to, the groom rode an elephant and I sat next to Elton John. I guess I’ll get over missing the registry office. I’m stumped about your prezzie, though. You and John have set up housekeeping, and a wad of cash is so gauche. What about matching cock rings? I think they make those in platinum.”

“My God,” Sherlock says. “What’s wrong with you?”  
  
“Dunno. Six different shrinks haven’t worked that out.” I stand as my phone starts singing “Just Like Heaven” by The Cure. “Sorry. I’ve gotta take this.”

I head to a quiet corner in the back of the cafe, standing by the mirror which runs along the wall. “Hey you,” I say. “Did you get my text?”  
  
“Yes,” Bijan says. “What the fuck, Ford?”  
  
“I know, I’m a dick for canceling. But 7 AM tomorrow is the only decent flight before Monday. You don’t want me to have to connect through Atlanta, do you?”

“We’ve been planning this for weeks. Francis is up to his elbows in squab.”  
  
“There’s a disturbing picture.”  
  
“You know what’s really disturbing? Me and Francis inviting our closest friends to meet Ford Huxley, and then having to tell them it’s a wash. They’re half-convinced it’s a big lie, anyway.”  
  
“Just show them the pictures. Well, not the ones from the ‘80s. My bangs were really—”

 _“You’re coming to dinner,”_ Bijan snaps. “You owe me. Do I have to say why?”  
  
“No,” I sigh. “Don’t do that.”  
  
Even if Bijan wasn’t on his cell, I wouldn’t want him to say. I’ve tried to forget that awkward conversation we had Monday morning. I called him at 6 AM, as soon as I could be reasonably sure he’d be awake and coherent, and made him call me back from a pay phone in the village. He wasn’t happy about being told to cancel his morning classes so he could destroy every single one of the beautiful hybrid marijuana plants he’d been carefully tending. He was more unhappy when I told him I couldn’t explain why Mycroft was on his case, only that it was a family thing, and by the way, should I bring red or white wine on Friday?

That’s half the reason I don’t want to go tonight. I bought a ‘96 Richebourg, but even a £400 bottle of Burgundy doesn’t make up for the fact that my brother threatened to destroy Jan’s life. Mycroft would do it, too. Calmly and undramatically, he’d make sure Jan spent the rest of his life in jail. Michael Houseman is a psychotic degenerate, but he has nothing on my brother.

“Are you still there?” Bijan demands.

“Jan, please. Don’t make me be Ford Huxley tonight.”

“Nobody’s asking you to tapdance. Just bring the wine and wear a nice jumper. Everyone will be too busy gawking at your brother to bother you. Tom Darnley is writing a paper on participatory fandoms for _Journal of Popular Culture_ : Don’t be surprised if he tries to monopolize Sherlock.”  
  
“Um, about Sherlock—” _Shit._ I rub my aching eyes. “He can’t come. I should have told you Monday, but I forgot.”   I didn’t, actually, but Bijan was already half in hysterics at the thought of spending the next 40 years in Pentonville. I didn’t want to add more fuel to the flames.  
  
“I know he’s honeymooning. If he wants to bring John, I suppose that’s okay. Though it leaves us with an uneven number at the dinner table.”

“This isn’t about John. You haven’t told anybody I was bringing Sherlock, right?”  
  
“It’s supposed to be a surprise, remember? Darnley will faint dead away when he finds out that Ford Huxley is Sherlock Holmes’ brother. Francis is going to have the camera ready.”  
  
“He’ll have to find another Kodak moment. I can’t bring Sherlock. You can’t tell anybody, not even your besties, that he’s my brother. This is fucking serious.”  
  
There’s a pause. “This is somehow related to Monday, isn’t it?”

“Somehow. But I can’t give details. It’s—”

“Family business. Right,” Jan says wearily. “I have four brothers and three sisters. God knows how many cousins and nieces and nephews. And I don’t have a tenth of the issues you have with your two brothers. Why is that?”  
  
“Because your family is human.” I rub my eyes again. “Look, I know this is last minute—”

“It’s fine if you can’t bring Sherlock. But it doesn’t mean you can’t come. You have to come. It’s three years that Francis and I have had St. Lucian’s, and you’ve never been there.”  
  
“If you’ve seen one Tudor mansion with frontage on the Thames, you’ve seen ‘em all.”

“Sherrinford,” Bijan says. “You promised.”  
  
I look at myself in the mirror. I look like shit. The bod’s okay—I hit the gym this morning, and it’s hard to look less-than-buff when you’re wearing Hugo Boss. But there are circles under my eyes, and I really need a facial. I’ve been up three nights straight working on the screenplay for _Dagger of the Mind_ , and yesterday I spent way too long in the hotel restaurant while Hiddleston quoted poetry at me. Not sure where that conversational tic comes from: Cambridge, probably. Hiddles is a lovely man who took a double first in Classics, which means he’d suit my movie down to the ground. But the quoting thing is fucking annoying.

God, I don’t want to be Ford Huxley tonight. I just want to go back to my hotel room and sleep. But I won’t sleep: I never do in the early stages of pre-production, when everything is so up in the air. Which means I may as well spend the hours between 7 PM and 4 AM, when I’ll go to the airport, doing something besides pacing my suite obsessing over dialogue. And I did promise.

“Okay,” I say. “I’ll come.”  
  
“Finally! The man sees sense,” Jan says. “Now, what are you going to do about a date?”  
  
 _“What?”_  
  
“Odd numbers at the dinner table: You know how Francis feels about that.”  
  
“I don’t know anybody in England except you and my brothers.” Maybe I could ask Hiddleston. He’s straight but it’s just dinner, and he really wants to play Jonathan Fine. But if he starts with that poetry shit again, I might kick him.  

“We could seat you next to Flora,” Bijan says thoughtfully. “She loves to sit at the table.”

“Fuck you, I’m not making dinner conversation with a pug.”

“Work it out, then. Blast! Francis just dropped one of the squabs. I have to go. See you 7ish.”

He rings off, leaving me sighing into my phone.

I should have taken last night’s flight. But Chris Hemsworth has an even crazier schedule than me or Tom Hiddleston, and he could only meet for lunch today. That’s why lunch with Sherlock turned into brunch. I would have canceled, but who knows when I’ll see my brother again. Just once, I wanted our goodbye to be nice, normal.

Like I’m staring at a split-screen, I can see our other goodbyes. Sherlock at seven, sitting on the front steps of 19 Chapel Street. Sherlock at 20, waiting by the jetway at LAX. Sherlock at 26, standing outside the Odeon Theater in Leicester Square. A child, a youth, and a man, all staring at me with identical expressions of betrayal.

I can see a fourth image, though I don’t want to. Sherlock at 32, on the roof of St. Barts hospital.   The real footage was taken with a cell phone, but I can see my brother like he was filmed in 4K: pale, despairing, resolute. I’ve seen that face so often in the past six months.

I rub my eyes. _Keep it together, Sherrinford. Twenty-four hours from now, you’ll be flying over the Atlantic. In 48 hours, you’ll be on your deck in Malibu. You don’t ever have to come back here, not even for premieres. In the meantime, man the fuck up and smile._

I pocket my phone and smile at nobody in particular. I start to make my way back to the table, threading my way around a tangle of chairs and people, when I stop cold.

Sherlock is surrounded on all sides by fans. We took a table away from the windows, but I guess somebody spotted him. They’re ringed around him like hyenas around a fresh carcass. Smiling hyenas in novelty tees, but voracious all the same. The Look is on his face.

When Sherlock was a small boy, he would get this same look, a blankness that people who didn’t know him took for dullness. People are stupid: Sherlock’s problem wasn’t that he couldn’t take things in. His problem was that he took _everything_ in. The closer to overload he got, the blanker he looked. Mycroft and I learned to recognize the tell-tale signs, and we could usually get him home before the screaming started.

 _Sixty seconds_ , I think. _Maybe less. Then Speedy’s is going to get a show._

Shit. I cross the café as quickly as I can, heedless of the chairs and elbows I’m knocking into.

“Ladies,” I say, grinning widely. “Give him a bit of air, would you?”  
  
I shove a knot of slender teenage limbs out of my way. I plop in the chair next to Sherlock. Under the table, I put a steadying hand on his knee. His muscles are trembling under my fingers.

“Who are you, then?” a tall, skinny girl with blue-streaked hair asks me. She’s the head of the pack. The others wouldn’t have had the guts to approach Sherlock, maybe, but this one has the shameless confidence of a veteran journalist. Or a stripper.  

“I’m Sherlock’s—friend,” I say.  

“Where’s John?” She eyes me suspiciously. “You know they’re married now, right?”

“It was so sweet,” a doe-eyed blonde says. She points at her own chest. She’s wearing a baby tee printed with one of the paparazzi wedding shots from Monday. Sherlock’s face is stretched tight over her perky left tit.

I see Sherlock’s eyes go to his own distorted features. Then they jump away, like he’s afraid Blondie’s tits will stare back. I feel him tense under my hand, ready to stand up and run, but I clamp down. I catch his gaze and give him a tiny headshake. _Be nice_ , I telegraph.

“Mycroft and Nero were at the wedding,” a round-faced baby gay says. “I think it’s nice that Sherlock had his family with him.”  
  
Fuck, I hate twinks. I give him a narrow look before my attention is distracted by a cute black girl with fabulous sparkly eyeshadow and an I AM SHERLOCKED t-shirt. “That blonde chick was there too,” she says. “She’s the surrogate.”

“She’s _not_ the surrogate,” Head Girl says. “She’s the nanny. Some foreign bint. When I left a teddy bear for Nero yesterday, she screamed at me out the window in Russian or something.” She gives Sherlock a pointed look. “You should find the baby a proper English nanny. What if Moriarty goes after Nero? You think that Russian bird is gonna do anything about it?”  
  
Sherlock turns pale and opens his lips. I stomp his foot before he can say something horrible. He winces but stays mum. “He appreciates the concern,” I say. “But Nero is doing just fine.”

“Moriarty isn’t real,” Twinkie says. “I saw his interview on Channel 4. He and Sherlock were just having a laugh.” He sighs lasciviously. “Richard Brook is fit, isn’t he?”

“Shut up, Davy,” Miss Fabulous says. “He’s a bloody psycho, and you’re a bloody idiot.”  
  
“Oh, I like you,” I say. “What’s your name, darling?”  
  
“Alisha,” she says. She nods at Head Girl, Blondie, and Twinkie. “That’s Kat, Maisie, and Davy. Who are you, love?”  
  
“Guess.” Teenyboppers aren’t my target audience, but the arty kids sometimes recognize me.

She peers at me closely. Then her face lights up. “Fucking hell,” she says. “It’s you!”  
  
“What?” Kat says. “Who is he?”  
  
Alisha points at me. “That’s Neville St. Clair!” She gives me a big grin. “I love your blog!”

So much for the paths of fucking glory. I catch Sherlock smirking and stomp his foot again.

“I thought Neville was some old bum,” the blonde girl says, looking confused.

“Christ, Maisie, that’s his sodding avatar,” Kat says.

“Wait,” Davy says. “St. Clair is a short, cute bloke. My mate snogged him in a toilet last night.”

Oh really?

“Lies,” I say. “All lies. I was home playing Barbies with my daughter.”  
  
“What daughter?” Alisha says, but I cut her off with a wave and a smile.

“Well, this has been fun, kids. But Sherlock and I really do have to go.”

There’s a chorus of puppy-like whining all the way around. Then thrusting hands and Sharpie markers, as various bits of paraphernalia are extended for Sherlock to sign. I get asked too, by Alisha and Maisie. Davy seems like he wants to ask, but I glare at him and he squeaks and runs away. Sherlock looks as if he’d like to follow in Davy’s footsteps, but I extend the glare to him and he signs. It’s mostly pictures and one deerstalker hat, which isn’t too bad. But when Maisie sticks out her chest and asks him to sign her t-shirt, that’s it for Sherlock. He flees the café.

I get my coat, give the fans a rueful look, and follow. Kat snaps a picture of our retreating backs.

Sherlock is collapsed in the old Morris chair by the inside stairs to 221-B, his head in his hands. “Did you hear them?” he says. “ _Did you smell them?”_

“Yeah, the perfumes were pretty bad. Britney Spears has a lot to answer for.”

“Speaking to me as if they knew me! Talking about Nero—what’s wrong with them?”

“They love you, Sherlock.” 

He stares up furiously. “That isn’t love. That’s—that’s—impertinence!”    
  
I perch on the arm of the chair, patting his knee. “Calm down, Gramps. The whippersnappers are gone. But you’re going to have to get used to it. You’re famous now.”

“I don’t want to be famous. I never did.”

“Come on, you did a bit. You wouldn’t have let John start the blog otherwise.”  
  
Sherlock looks down. “I was trying to make him happy.”

“The things we do to get laid, huh?” I pat his knee again. “Look at it this way. According to the latest Tumblr polls, the fans still like you better than Moriarty. You should see those RPS fics—wait. Don’t look at those. It’s better if you never learn what an Omega is.”

We both look up as the door at the end of the hall opens, and a man makes its way towards us.   If the light were a little more dim, you might mistake him for Chris Hemsworth. He’s the same type: tall, blonde, built like a brick shithouse. A mammalian charm which makes ladies swoon at his feet. You can’t underestimate the power of that. Hiddleston is talented, but when you’re talking about a nine-figure budget, you want all the insurance you can get.

‘Michael’ is very handsome, but he’d never make an actor. Too guarded. His beauty would ice right out onscreen. Maybe with some acting classes—no. Michael doesn’t want the notoriety. Also, if his real name is what I think it is, he doesn’t need the money.

“Sherlock, you’re wanted upstairs,” he says. “Danica has a question about the curtains.”  
  
Sherlock regards him quizzically. “There’s mud on your shoes. You’ve been in the garden.”

“She shouted out the window.”  
  
“I’ve talked to her about that.” Sherlock sighs. “She’s ridiculously stubborn.”  
  
“She does like to have her own way.” Michael’s mouth quirks in a half-smile, and even that much emotion is enough to transform him wonderfully. Fucking hell, if he’d take classes—

“Where’s John?” Sherlock asks him.

“In the lounge. St. Clair is visiting.”  
  
Sherlock makes a little moue of disgust. I grin at that, though the knowledge that Neville is on the premises makes me squirm a bit. I _was_ going to text him back, but I got busy. Then he texted me too many times, and it got weird. It’s been weird from the beginning, actually, and I’ve had a fuckton of work to do, and trying to sort it out with Nev at this point would be too much trouble. The back-and-forth bullshit is cute in a romantic comedy, but in real life it’s exhausting.

“I should go,” I say, shrugging into my coat. “Guess this is it, baby brother. Give us a hug.”  
  
Sherlock submits limply to being embraced, which is better than his usual active resistance. It still amazes me, that he’s warm and real in my arms rather than ashes in the ground. (Mycroft didn’t tell me about the service until it was over. Yeah, the funeral was fake, but I didn’t know that. More to the point, _he_ didn’t.)

My eyes start prickling, and I let Sherlock go before I start crying like a little bitch. I pull back, straightening his lapels instead. “You and John can come to L.A. anytime.”  
  
“Maybe we will,” Sherlock says, in a tone that tells me he has no such plan. But at least he has the courtesy to lie. Given our history, that’s progress.

Without another word, he heads upstairs. He pauses briefly at the landing to the lounge before continuing to the bedrooms on the third floor.

I watch him until he’s out of sight. Then I start towards the front door.

“Wait,” Michael says. “You’re wanted in the garden.”

“Wanted by who?”  
  
Michael quirks an eyebrow. Okay, it was a stupid question. Of course _he’s_ out there in the cold, lurking like the abominable snowman.  

“What does Mycroft want?”  
  
Michael shrugs. Fucker.

“If I say no?”

“I was told to bring you. I’d rather walk you out there, but—” he stops.

_But I’ll beat you to a pulp if necessary. Then I’ll help the hot nanny hang curtains._

Option A is less work, and would get him in the vicinity of Danica and her awesome rack faster. But Option B is fine with him. I feel the truth of that like a cold hand squeezing my guts.

I squint at Michael, standing there so calm and still, menace pouring off him like strong cologne. I have to remember this. Hemsworth could rock an ice-cold assassin kind of role. One who falls in love with a stubborn little blonde with great tits—

Michael makes an impatient movement, and I jump.

“Okay,” I say. “Lead on.”

The back garden of 221 Baker Street is a neglected little rectangle. At some point in the past somebody tried to fix it up a bit, putting in a low stone bench by the house steps and ornamental flagstones in the ground. But now the bench is darkened with soot, and the flagstones are mostly broken. In the summer it would look better; there would be grass pushing up between the stones, and the bushes lining the back fence would be leggy and green. But it’s all dead now. The only sign of life is Faust the cat, nosing around in what’s left of the bushes, looking for prey.

Mycroft is sitting on the bench, smoking and watching Faust. He’s bundled up in a black wool trench coat. Gieves & Hawkes, you can tell by the regimented buttons and boxy shoulders. Too dull for my taste, but even TLo couldn’t find fault with the tailoring. The creases in his trousers are knife-edges. When he stands, the hems will exactly meet the tops of his John Lobb Oxfords.

Mycroft doesn’t turn around as we draw near.

“Thank you, Michael,” he says. “You can go.”  
  
“Any instructions?” Michael asks.

“See if the ladies require assistance.   I believe there have been some difficulties with the cot.”  
  
Michael nods and heads back down the stairs. I don’t sit down, though there’s plenty of room. That bench looks like a dirty block of ice, and even though my Burberry coat is shearling-lined with a rabbit fur collar, I’m still freezing. Also, I don’t feel like catching lung cancer today.

Mycroft points with his cigarette. “See where the dirt is disturbed?” he says. “That’s where Faust buries his prey. John and Sherlock found 13 corpses yesterday. Impressive, given the brevity of his residence.”

I watch Faust as he glides ominously through the skeletal underbrush. He’s oblivious to the cold, his long silver coat better insulation than anything you could buy on Savile Row. His green eyes are the brightest thing in this bitter landscape of grey and black. They sparkle with the ferocious joy of the predator. He’s particularly attentive to one stunted evergreen in the corner, it’s snow- covered branches capable of hiding all manner of tiny, tasty things.  

“Christ,” I say. “Don’t John and Sherlock feed him?”  
  
“Rather excessively, in my opinion,” Mycroft says. “Faust doesn’t eat his prey. Sherlock told me that when they were in Budva, the cat spent a whole afternoon torturing a snake. Every time the creature put its head up, Faust slapped it down. Sometimes he let it escape a few feet before recapturing it. At last he grew bored and tore open its belly. He left the corpse for the dogs.”  

Mycroft takes a thoughtful puff on his cigarette. “The snakes are hibernating now, of course. But there are plenty of birds and squirrels about.”

I stamp my boots on the icy flagstones, shivering. “What the hell do you want?”

He turns to look at me for the first time. Though his face is utterly calm, his eyes are more intent than Faust’s. “Your instructions were simple and specific. Do not approach Sherlock in public. What were you thinking, coming to Speedy’s?”  
  
“Fuck you, I’m not one of your minions. You can’t order me around.”

Mycroft takes out his cell phone. He looks at it. “The police can be at Bijan Patel’s house in ten minutes. All I have to do is call.”  
  
“The plants are gone. Did you really think I wouldn’t tell him?”  
  
“I knew you would. Which is why I sent someone to his house to take photographs and cuttings on Sunday. It’s a large property; he and his husband didn’t even notice the intrusion. Samael’s evidence and the CCTV footage are more than sufficient proof.”

I fold my arms over my chest. Because I’m cold, and because if I don’t my hands are going to find their way around Mycroft’s throat. “It was _brunch_. No one saw me with Sherlock.”  
  
“Everyone saw you.” Mycroft looks at his phone. Even from here I can see the color video feed. Of course he has a camera in Speedy’s. There are probably cameras in the toilet. “I would have intervened, but by the time I checked the cameras you and Sherlock were already surrounded. It would have made even more of a spectacle to intrude at that point.”

“They’re just kids. What can they do?”  
  
“Are you being deliberately obtuse?” Mycroft snaps. “One clear photo uploaded to the web. That’s all it would take for your true identity to be exposed.”  
  
“I don’t care! I don’t know why you do, either. The kids didn’t recognize me. Yes, one took a photo—of our backs. That won’t come to anything, and you know it. You also know that I’m leaving. You’ve won, Mike. I didn’t go to the wedding, I’m not making the Sherlock movie, and I’m not staying in London. So why the fuck are you fucking with me?”

Mycroft says nothing. He pockets his phone, picking up his umbrella instead. He’s watching Faust, who’s found something by the evergreen. The cat is crouched down, tail twitching, eyes blazing. His prey is concealed by a branch. I can’t see it, but I feel sorry for it.

“You will not see Sherlock again,"  Mycroft says.  "You will not contact him, not even when you return to Los Angeles.  Is that clear?"

“You supercilious piece of shit. You can’t toss me out like some kind of—of _leper.”_

“An apt simile,” he says.   “Your influence is corrosive. I won’t have it affecting our brother. He’s in a fragile state of mind.”  
 _  
_“Bullshit. Sherlock is fine. You’re just pissed about my new movie.”

Mycroft rises and faces me, taking a long drag on his fag. God, I hate cigarettes. Especially these: Dunhill Reds. Of course Mycroft smokes the same brand as our father. He sleeps in Siger’s bed, he uses Siger’s tailor.   He probably visits the same fucking brothel in St. John’s Wood. But _my_ influence is corrosive?     

“Just man the fuck up and admit it,” I say. “Poor Mikey’s feelings are hurt.”

Mycroft takes one last hateful drag. Then he grinds the fag under his shoe, shaking his head.

“You really are obtuse,” he says. “Perhaps you can’t help it. You’ve wasted your life on these puerile fantasies, so you think they matter. Your movies mean nothing, Sherrinford.You are a fake man manipulating plastic people in front of a painted backdrop. In the real world, you have no more power than those ridiculous children at the café.”

“It kills you, doesn’t it?” I manage, after a minute. “That Mum left her rights to me. That she loved me, and she wished you’d never been born. Do you know I’m going to have to _tone down_ her portrayal of Michael Houseman? As bad as I’ll make him, I can’t make him as horrible as Violet Vernet wrote him. Not onscreen. No audience could bear it.”  
  
Mycroft has gone pale.   He clutches his umbrella like it’s a weapon. “You are mistaken, if you think that woman’s opinion could affect me. The writings of a depraved, alcoholic hysteric—”

I grab his arm. “You take that back!”  
  
“Fuck off!” He twists away. “She brought that Irishman into our home.”  
  
“She had reason—”

“To fuck Patrick Jones in her marital bed?   There is no excuse for that. Not if Father had been beating her bloody, instead of indulging her every whim.”  
  
“I’m glad she fucked Patrick! I hope he came all over Granny Edith’s Irish linen sheets!”  
  
“Easy for you to say,” Mycroft says. “You didn’t see them.” 

I can’t answer that immediately. I know what happened, obviously. Perhaps I’m the only living soul who does now, except for Mycroft himself. One winter day, Mikey came home early from school with a stomachache. Mrs. Thompson was doing the weekly shopping, so he went upstairs to find his mum. He found her, all right. She and Patrick didn’t see him standing in the doorway. They were too intent on what they were doing. I was the first one he told—we were a lot closer then. I should have been the last.

“You didn’t have to tell,” I say.

“Father asked. After I vomited all over the dinner table, of course he grew suspicious.”

“If you’d just kept your big mouth shut—”

“ _She brought him into our home._ Why should I have protected her?”  
  
“Sherlock,” I say quietly. “You should have protected Sherlock.”  
  
Mycroft stares at me. His face is very still; even his eyes are shuttered. But I can feel the deadly menace radiating off him. He’s much scarier than Michael could ever hope to be, though I know Mycroft would never touch me. He’s cleverer than that. Crueler.

“Fourteen years ago, I sent our brother to you,” he says. “I hoped, rather than believed, that you had changed. That you were capable of caring for anything but your own selfish feelings. I sent you a shy, innocent boy, and you sent me back a suicidal cocaine addict.”

“Oh, please! He was fucked up before he got to L.A. How could he not be, with no mother?”  
  
“Yes! It’s my fault Violet rutted with Patrick Jones in her husband’s bed, while her baby son slept in the next room. Strange how that scene never made it into _The Shadow Son_. Nor did the one where Father agreed to let her stay in London, so long as she gave up Patrick. When it came to a choice between her sons and her lover, she didn’t hesitate, did she? Mother left us and went to the other side of the world. She even left you, her so-called favorite. 

“So go ahead, make your film. Tell your lies, just like she told them. But I know the truth. And deep down, in that wretched mass of egotism you call a soul, _so do you.”_

Mycroft tucks his umbrella over his arm. He walks towards the rusty gate that leads to the back garden of 219. The house is currently unoccupied but he has a key, for reasons you can probably guess. Before he goes, he turns back. His voice is calmer than it was a moment ago. His face is almost kind. My brother is never more gracious than just after he eviscerates you.

“I’ll overlook your blunder this morning. I’d like to believe that at some level you do care for Sherlock, and you wanted to say goodbye properly. But if you really care for him, you’ll stay away. You’ll go back to America, and you’ll be Ford Huxley. Sherrinford Holmes has been gone a long time. It’s better for everyone if he stays buried.”

I say nothing, turning away. I hear the click-clack of my brother’s shoes on the flagstones, then the squeak of the gate opening. Once I’m sure he’s gone, I sink down on the bench. It’s as cold as a tombstone. I’m ten minutes late for meeting Chris Hemsworth, but I’m past caring.

I see Faust emerging from under the evergreen. Held in his jaws is a brown, furry creature. It’s a small rabbit, bloody and very dead. He digs furiously at the dirt by the fence. It’s been dug up recently, so the work goes fast. He pulls the rabbit into the hole he’s made and paws dirt over it. Then he trots off towards the open garden gate, his tail held triumphantly in the air.

I pick up a chunk of flagstone and almost throw it at him. But that wouldn’t be right. He’s just acting according to his nature. A predator from a long line of predators—who could blame him?

I run my hands over the rough piece of rock. I’d be better off bashing my own head in. It feels like I already have, a pounding behind my eyes that means migraine. Dear God, I don’t want to go to Oxfordshire tonight. I don’t want to be Ford Huxley.

As I’m putting down the rock I hear a noise, and I turn around. Neville is standing on the steps leading from the basement level of the house. He blends in with the shadows except for his red-and-white scarf. Who knows how long he’s been standing there.

It’s lucky that Mycroft and I fight in French. I don’t even notice when we make the switch, it’s so automatic. I only realize when I make myself remember, like I’m doing now.

Neville comes into the garden. He hesitates by the bench, biting his lip. Nobody should look good in this awful greyish light, but he does. His lips are redder than ever, eyes as bright and blue as a California sky. Against the iron-colored clouds, he seems to glow.

“Hey, cutie,” I say. “What’s up?”  
  
“You didn’t text me.” Nev doesn’t sound angry. He’s just stating a fact.

“I’m sorry. It’s been a weird week.”  
  
“Yeah.”

He sits down on the bench beside me. We’re silent a few minutes. I know I should be making polite chit-chat, but right now I’m too exhausted to speak. It’s not so bad, sitting here quietly with Nev. We watch the sky grow greyer. It’s going to snow.

Neville gets up from the bench. He bends over the little mound where Faust’s rabbit is, frowning. He digs into his coat pocket, taking out a pink Post-it note. The kind of thing you might shove in your pocket and forget all about, but he smooths the crumpled paper. With a few clever folds, he fashions it into a flower. He sticks it in the dirt at the head of the tiny grave.

“Poor thing,” he says.

The world goes blurry. I look away, blinking hard. “It was just a rabbit,” I rasp.

Neville shrugs.

I scrape my boots on the frozen earth. I look up at the frozen sky. Then I look at Neville.

“So,” I say. “What are you doing for dinner tonight?”


	58. Chapter 58

** John 11 January 2013  
**

He’s only made it through two folders on the drive when the baby starts fussing.   He bounces him against his chest, hoping to buy another ten minutes, but there’s no getting between Nero and lunch. With a resigned sigh, John closes the laptop. He takes the flashdrive out of the slot, considering a moment. Then he goes to the big plush bear in the corner and conceals the drive behind its bow tie. Satisfied with his hiding place, he heads to the kitchen.

Nero eats baby beef stew happily enough, but he balks at the pureed prunes. He screws up his face in an awful grimace, letting purple sludge dribble down his chin. The cheerful duckies on his bib look like they’ve been attacked by the Blob.

“Come on,”   John says. “They’re good for what ails you.”  
  
“Cho-chos!” Nero demands, and bangs his hands on the tray of the high chair.

“No Cheerios,” John says sternly. “You had them for breakfast and there was barley in the beef stew. That’s enough carbs for now, young man.”

He picks up the spoon and dips another spoonful of prunes. “Just a couple of bites, okay?” John holds the spoon close to the baby’s mouth.   Nero scowls but opens his lips.

“Good lad. See? That wasn’t so—”

 _“Pwhewt!”_ Nero blows out air, spitting prunes all over himself, the tray, and John’s jumper.

“Dick,” John mutters, throwing the spoon on the tray and reaching for the kitchen roll.

“You can’t call a baby a dick,” a voice says behind him.

“Why not?” John says, blotting at his jumper. “He is.”

He turns to see Julia Siviter standing in the archway. It’s the first time he’s spoken to her today, as he was busy in the lounge when she arrived to help with the nursery. Julia is wearing a grey sheath and black pumps with gold buckles, a big black bag over her arm. The dress emphasizes her curves, but its material is heavy and has a sheen to it, like woolen armor. Her hair is pulled back in a severe knot as the nape of her neck. The effect is lovely but forbidding, which suits Julia’s style of beauty exactly. But her smile is warm as she comes near.

Nero screeches in excitement at the sight of her, holding out his arms. 

“Nope,” John tells him. “You’re not getting Julia’s dress all pruny.”  
  
“I don’t mind,” Julia says. She picks up a tea towel, wets it under the sink, and starts dabbing at Nero’s face and hands. “Let me try.”  
  
She picks up the spoon and dips it in the jar. She holds it near the baby’s mouth, heedless of the potential damage to a dress that’s dry clean only. John prepares for disaster, but Nero opens his mouth like a champ. He chews the mushy prunes, staring at her adoringly.

“That’s it!” John says. “You’re coming over every meal time.”  
  
“I wish I could,” Julia says. “But my schedule has been so hectic lately. I wasn’t supposed to be here today, but I did want to advise Danica about the curtains.”

“How is the grand design going?”  
  
“Reasonably well,” she says. “Though I wish she’d consulted me about the cot. Why Dani felt the urge to purchase that cheap Swedish monstrosity is beyond me. We’ve been struggling with it for the last hour. The instructions are abominable: _pictograms_ , John! What is one supposed to do with that?   If she’d just let me call Dragons’—”

“Well, I see her point. No sense spending 900 quid on a cot he’ll outgrow in a year or two.”

“I suppose. But IKEA? Really?”

 _“Rawry?”_ Nero grumbles through a mouthful of prunes. Julia gives him a dazzling smile.

“Kiss ass,” John mutters at him, and wipes up purple spots from the tray.

“You two seem to be getting along,” Julia says, putting down the spoon.

“Oh, it’s the glamorous life here at Baker Street,” John says. “Thanks for the linens, by the way. Those green things of Sherlock’s had gotten a bit grotty. Though you were too generous. I think we have enough sheets and towels to last through our silver anniversary.”  
  
“It was your _wedding_ ,” Julia says. “That reminds me—” she reaches in her bag and takes out a flat package wrapped in yellow paper.

“Really, you’ve already spent too much—”

“Oh, this isn’t a wedding gift.” She nods at the baby. “I was at Waterstone’s the other day and I saw this. I think Nero will enjoy it.”  
  
John rips the paper open. He smiles when he sees the book inside. “ _D’Aulaire’s Book of Greek Myths_. I remember this.”   He thumbs through it quickly. “Great pictures.”

“It’s never too early to start a classical education.”

“Thanks, love.” John sets the book on the kitchen table. Then he leans in and gives Julia a grateful kiss on the cheek. She turns and picks up the baby, but he catches the blush on her face.

Right. They’ve never talked about what happened between them last September. What’s there to say? It isn’t likely to be repeated, given how things have turned out. John is okay with that, but he does worry about Julia. Her personal life appears to be exactly as it’s always been: non-existent. Which is a rotten shame. Her manner can be frosty and she spends too much on towels, but she’d still make some man a cracking wife. Better than Mycroft Holmes deserves, probably.

“How are you?” John says, catching her gaze.  
  
“I’m very well,” Julia replies. “I think the more interesting question is, how are you?”

Odd. That isn’t something anyone has asked him since Monday. Not even Neville, considerate as he normally is. But John hasn’t thought about it much. He’s been too occupied putting one foot in front of the other, in hopes of eventually finding his way out of the muck.

Parts of this week have been lovely. It’s been such a relief to get back home, after 48 hours in the dusty museum of Chapel Street. He hasn’t minded getting to know Nero better, despite their daily pitched battles at meal time. Also, the regular sex has been a bonus. He and Sherlock are supposed to be honeymooning, though excavating teddy bears and navigating the Byzantine new security system isn’t exactly a trip to Mykonos.

Sherlock is doing fine, which after the events of Monday morning seems like the best wedding gift of all. He’s eating and sleeping and shagging, and he isn’t obsessing over every blog post and news report on Richard Brook. Yesterday morning, John found him dissecting a liver on the kitchen table. For one moment, it felt as if the last six months had never happened.

St. Barts did happen, though. Every candle and stuffed animal John cleans off the front steps reminds him that his life will never be the same. Fame is one thing—that had been building for the past year, anyway. Notoriety is something else. Along with candles and bears and knickers have been other things. Disturbing things.

He looks up to see Julia looking at him intently. “Only two death threats today,” he says. “I guess that’s something. Though Friday isn’t over yet.”  
  
“A fringe element,” Julia says. “I’ve been analyzing the online metrics. For the most part, the public is responding very well to Sherlock’s return. The percentage of threatening keywords and phrases is within normal parameters. Give it a few weeks. Everything will calm down.” She runs her fingers through Nero’s curls, a pensive look on her face. “Though I’d advise you to increase your blog posts to two a day. Emphasize your relationship with Nero. Positive responses to you and Sherlock increase by as much as 12% every time the baby is mentioned.”

“I hate that,” John says. “It feels like we’re using him as a prop.”  
  
“I know it’s distasteful. Babies shouldn’t be celebrities. But it must be done, at least for now. In a few months you can taper off. The public has a short memory. Soon enough, Nero can just be a lovely boy again.” She waves at Nero and he gives her a brilliant grin, showing all four of his teeth. He nuzzles his head against her left breast. His right hand gives it a good squeeze.

John gives an embarrassed chuckle and reaches to take him back. “Sorry about that. We’ve tried to explain that it’s impolite, but he hasn’t gotten the message yet. I think Danica is ready to file a harassment suit.”  
  
“It’s all right,” she says, holding on to Nero. She looks at the baby as intently as she looked at John a minute ago, but her eyes are softer.

Despite their efforts, rumors that Julia is Nero’s mother are still swirling about. The majority have accepted the surrogate story, but John has read some impassioned editorials from a vocal minority, complete with pictures. They’re not entirely off-base: Nero’s eyes are as wide-set and long-lashed as Julia’s, and they both have those pointed chins. Their coloring is also the same, but there are a lot of pale-eyed, dark-haired people in the UK. Just one of those coincidences, though it’s too bad Nero didn’t draw Julia in the mummy lottery. A boy could do a lot worse.

John flashes on an image of another lovely woman with dark hair and pale eyes. Irene Adler, lying butchered in blood-soaked sheets: Sherlock's description was vivid. John sees yet another, one with dark eyes set in a round face. Nothing below that but a ragged, bloody stump. Her amputated head stares from the telly stand with an expression of glazed surprise. Fuck, he didn’t want to look at that crime scene photo. But he has to look at everything. How else can he decide what to do?        

He looks up to see Julia watching him again. Her expression is calm, but he knows that his own must not be, for she puts a hand on his arm and says, “It’s going to be fine. I promise you.”

“Richard Brook is on every chat show,” John says. “That smirking psycho fuck. Do you know they’re devoting a whole episode of _Panorama_ to him on Monday?”  
  
“This won’t last. James Moriarty can’t hide his true face forever.” Julia counts Nero’s toes, seeming serene. “Strange that he’s so desperate for the spotlight, when he has to know that he can’t afford scrutiny. This bid for publicity will be his undoing.”  
  
“Maybe. If your father stays out of it.”  
  
Julia raises her head, giving him a placid smile. “Daddy has a short attention span. I think it’s his only weakness. Every man has one. A year from now, he won’t care about Moriarty. Especially when he sees there’s no treasure there.”

John grips her arm. “Julia. There are files on Moriarty. Somewhere deep in GCHQ. If you could give me access, it would be such a help.”

Julia shakes her head slowly. “I’m sorry. You don’t have the security clearance. Daddy would be so upset.” She hands him back the baby with a regretful air. “I really must go. I’m meeting Daddy for lunch at the Savoy Grill. Good Lord, I’m sick of pork cutlets. Walk me down?”

He follows her downstairs, Nero on his shoulder making angry little huffs at being denied Julia.

Julia pauses at the coat rack by the door. Her coat is soft blue cashmere with a belt. It reminds him uncomfortably of the mac she was wearing in September, when she tried to seduce him. As impossible as shagging Julia seems now, seeing someone’s O-face does leave one with a certain bond. Before she can escape, he touches her arm again.

“If you find any files you can release—”

“I’ll send them to you, of course. But you don’t really need them, do you?”  
  
He stares at her. “What do you mean?”  
  
“I mean that Moriarty will self-destruct very soon. No one with his level of psychosis can stand the basilisk stare of the public for long. He wants it, but he can’t bear it. That’s _his_ weakness. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he ended in a suicide.” She pinches Nero’s fat cheek, and he coos at her. “Goodbye, small one.”

Julia ties her belt and picks up her bag. In her modest dress and cashmere coat, she looks like any other professional woman. Only her shoes show a flash of attitude, those spike heels with their gold buckles—

Wait. Those aren’t buckles.

Julia catches him staring and smiles, wiggling her toes. “McQueen. I love the new line.”  

“Gold skulls,” John says. “Nice.”  
  
 _“Memento mori,”_ Julia says. “Though perhaps _cineri gloria sera venit_ is more appropriate to the occasion.” Before he can ask what that means she leans in, giving him a kiss on the lips. “Do let me know how you like the curtains.”

While he’s still astonished by the PDA, she hurries down the steps to her waiting cab.

As Julia departs, a Brinks van pulls up to the curb. Seeing John, the driver gets out quickly. He hurries up the steps and presents John with a small parcel. John signs for it, and the man leaves just as fast. While John is outside, he notices more stuffed animals. He picks up several with the hand that’s not clutching Nero and the parcel.

He would like to get all of them, but two teenagers who had been loitering by the intersection catch sight of him. They run, squealing, and John dashes inside.

The baby makes a petulant sound and grabs for the plush badger, but John holds it away. “Not until it’s checked out. You know the drill.”  
  
Nero does not, in fact, know the drill. He’s working up a good whine as John heads upstairs.

The third floor has been a hive of activity for the last couple of days, Raphael and Samael doing work on the security system while Danica, with occasional help from Michael and Julia, finishes Nero’s nursery. They’re using the small boxroom next to John’s bedroom. This allows Danica a respite while giving John and Sherlock fast access to the baby. They’ve been sleeping in John’s room since they returned, and probably will be for the foreseeable future. (John has floated the idea of turning Sherlock’s old room into a lab. It would keep the body parts out of the kitchen.)

John has tried to keep clear of the third floor during the day, but he’s curious about the progress that’s been made. Also, that Brinks package wasn’t for him or Sherlock.

“Danica,” he calls as he gets to the landing. “You here, love?”  
  
“Yes,” she says, poking her head out of his bedroom. “If you look for Sherlock, he is not here. He go to Scotland Yard. He say he will be back soon.”

John grimaces. Sherlock mentioned something yesterday about Greg Lestrade wanting a general consult and catch-up, but John wasn’t interested. If Sherlock wants to busy himself solving cold cases for the Met, more power to him. But as far as John is concerned, Lestrade and his cronies have a long way to go before they make up for last June.

“How’s it going up here?” John says.

Danica opens her mouth, but before she can speak a man’s voice comes from behind her.

“MOTHERFUCKING PIECE OF FUCKED-UP SWEDISH SHITE!” There’s a crash as something is thrown hard against the wall.

Danica spins around. “Shut up! You make baby cry!”

Too late. Nero, already discomfited over Julia’s departure and the loss of a toy badger, has begun wailing. John tries bouncing him, but the baby holds out his arms for Danica, who bustles over. Nero wraps himself around his nanny, burying his head in her breasts. She’s clad only in tight pink track pants and a low-cut tee with JUICY across the front, so one understands the impulse.

She puts an expert hand against Nero’s bottom and squints at John. “Prunes?” she says.

“They’re good for his tummy.”  
  
“I show you his nappy. You see how good,” she grumbles, opening the door to the nursery. John tries to follow, but she puts a hand on his chest. “Go help the boys. Big government spies, and they cannot put cot together. Very sad.”

Nero’s new cot is sturdy and square, made of heavy white particleboard. It has a mattress that can be placed at two different heights, and one side is removable. Nero can use it for at least the next couple of years. At £100, a very sensible purchase. If they ever get it assembled, that is.

John doesn’t have to ask why Michael and Gabriel didn’t do the assembly in the nursery. His own room is twice the size of the other, and Mycroft’s men have colonized all of it, sitting in a vast asteroid belt of boards and hardware. John realizes the necessity of the project, but he can’t help sighing. He’d just gotten his room back together after Sherlock tore it apart on Saturday.

He sets the stuffed animals and the parcel on the bed, approaching cautiously. Michael is calm, but Gabriel’s freckled face is flushed. He has a screwdriver in one hand and some odd-looking screws in the other. Beside him is a long white board. Its corner is bent a bit, corresponding to the new triangular gash in the wall.

“Are you calm now?” Michael says.

“No,” Gabriel seethes. “We still don’t know what bloody side the screws go into.”  
  
“What do the directions say?”  
  
“They say nothing. They’re fucking pictographs.”  
  
“What do the pictographs show?”

“THEY SHOW BOARDS, MICHAEL.”  
  
“For God’s sake, keep your voice down.”  
  
“WHY? SHE’S NOT SUCKING _MY_ COCK.”

Michael narrows his eyes, and John steps forward before it can end in bloodshed. “Let me take a look,” he says. “I’ve put together a few flatpacks in my time.” 

“Thank sodding Christ.” Gabriel stands up. He wipes his hands across his trousers, and several round bolts fall to the floor. “I don’t know what those go to,” he says, rather desperately. “The directions say to use four cam bolts and I did use four, but now we have _these_ —”

“Don't worry. Sometimes they give you extra.”  
  
Gabriel stares at John. “I need a fucking drink.”

John sits as Gabriel exits, muttering:  “Liked it better when we were chopping up corpses—”

“Don’t mind him,” Michael says. “He’s having a bad week.”

“He hasn’t gone home yet?” When Michael blinks at him, John smiles. “Raphael has been here all week testing the security. His mum calls a lot. Somebody should tell them that other people speak Farsi. Seems a shame: From what he’s told his mum, it sounds like Samael was just a misunderstanding. Sherlock doesn’t always get it right, you know.”

“Gabriel is stubborn.” Michael sorts through a pile of screws, looking superior. “And jealousy is a useless emotion. But— _Irish.”_ he shrugs. “What does Step 12 say?”

John opens the directions, and for a few minutes conversation turns to practical matters.

Danica comes in with Nero. “No more prunes,” she says. “Nappy was scary. How is cot going?”

“Not bad,” John says. “We figured out which way the boards go. That’s progress.”

Danica nods, putting Nero on the bed. He makes a beeline for the plush badger, giving a screech when she snatches it away. “Where does this come from?” she demands.

“Front steps. I gave it a once-over, and it seems okay. But Michael might want to take a look.”  
  
“Michael will not look. Baby do not need gifts from crazy people.” Danica throws the badger on the bed and bends to pick up Nero. “Come, _dragi._ We find your bear.”

“Wait,” John says. “Don’t forget your package.”

Danica grabs the parcel on the pillow. “What is this? I do not order something.”  
  
Michael is up instantly. “Give it to me.” He reaches for the package, but Danica holds it away.

“Crazy people do not know me.”

Before he can stop her, she’s torn into the parcel. Beneath the brown paper is a red box, edged in a lush design of gold vines. She opens it, and her eyes widen.

 _“O boʐye_ ,” she whispers.

Michael hovers over her, face grim, as if expecting anthrax. Then he sees what’s actually in the box, and he grows even grimmer.

“What is it?” John says, standing.

Nestled in black velvet is a diamond pendant on a white-gold chain. It’s not the usual circle or teardrop: This pendant is made of dozens of tiny but perfect stones, arranged on five sensually curved white-gold leaves. In the center of the leaves is another, larger, pear-shaped stone. The final effect is of a single shimmering orchid.

The card attached to the box explains the source of this generosity:

_Thinking of you, petal. –JS_

“Is it real?” Danica says.

“Definitely,” John says.  

Her gaze is soft with wonder. “It is beautiful. How much does it cost?”

“What does that matter?” Michael says.

“I want to know. I am—” English seems to fail her. _“Radoznao.”_

 _“Curious,”_ Michael snaps. “Is that the word you want? Or do you mean _comparison shopping_?”

“What is wrong with you?” she says.

Michael draws himself up. Though physically they are nothing alike, in this moment he reminds John of Sherlock when he’s in a strop. There’s an identical air of aggrieved privilege. Michael looks down his patrician nose at Danica.

“Nothing is wrong with me.” His usual colorless accent is sharpening fast, each syllable glassy and distinct. “But if that vulgar trinket is all it takes to turn your head, then there is something very wrong with you, darling.”

He spins on his heel and stomps out the door.

“Miko!” Danica says. “You come back here! _Ovo јye gloopost!”_

She throws the red box in John’s direction and follows Michael. John can hear two sets of feet, very heavy and very light, running down the stairs.

John makes sure the necklace is secure in its velvet cradle. Then he shuts the box and puts it in the drawer of the nightstand. Danica can ask him about it later, if she wants it.

He looks at Nero, goggling up at him from the bed. The baby seems as surprised as he is.

“Guess the Irish aren’t the only ones who get jealous,” John says.

 _“Jayoss,”_ Nero agrees, and gums the badger’s snout.

 

* * *

 

John finished the cot. It wasn’t difficult when he didn’t have Michael misreading the directions; The worst part was cleaning up all the rubbish from the flatpack. Leaving Nero playing with his toy, John carried the cot into the nursery. He slid it into place, and the room was done.

Danica and Julia have done a nice job. The old paper has been stripped off, the walls painted a cheerful yellow. The curtains are white with brown dots, sheers behind them for added privacy.   A dresser Danica found in the attic has been given a coat of white paint, a changing pad placed on top of it. That occupies one of the long walls, with the cot opposite.

Over the cot, decals have been fixed to the wall, showing happy bears gorging themselves on honeypots. In the far corner is a squashy armchair, another attic find, its faded fabric covered in a yellow slipcover. A round table is by the chair, covered in the same material as the curtains, with a fat white lamp in its center. In the other corner is a tall brown bookcase, Nero’s new books and toys carefully arranged on it. A boy couldn’t ask for a cozier nest.

Danica spent maybe £500 on the project, including furniture. If the bills had been ten times that much, Sherlock, oblivious to money as ever, wouldn’t have blinked. Danica and Julia have had some splendid arguments about the budget, but Danica stood fast. John stayed out of it, though he appreciates Danica’s sensible approach. It’s what his own mum would have done.

It’s very snug to sit here now, in the squashy armchair with Nero. The light outside is fading, but the lamp casts a cozy glow over the room. Earlier, Nero had a rousing play session with his toys. He was particularly taken with a puzzle box which required him to slot different-shaped blocks into matching slots. A song would play when the right shape went in the right slot. John thought the game might be too difficult, but Nero loved it, squealing every time he made the box sing.

After play, a bath, and a snack, Nero is sleepy. It’s storytime. There were several dozen volumes on the bookcase to choose from, but John already knew which one he wanted, and it was a good choice. Nero is fascinated by the book, his little hands reaching out to touch the colorful pages.

_“Athena, goddess of wisdom, was Zeus’ favorite child. She had sprung full-grown from his head._

_“Her mother was Metis, goddess of prudence, Zeus’ first wife. He needed her wise council, but Mother Earth warned him that, were Metis to bear a son, this son would dethrone him as Zeus had dethroned Cronus. This must not happen, thought Zeus, so he decided to swallow her. He proposed that they play a game of changing shapes. Metis playfully turned herself into all kinds of animals, big and small. Just as she had taken the shape of a fly, Zeus opened wide his mouth, and zip! he swallowed her. Ever after, Metis sat in his head and guided him from there._

_“So it happened that Metis was going to have a daughter, and she sat inside Zeus hammering out armor and weaving splendid robes for the coming child. But soon Zeus began suffering pounding headaches, and cried out in agony. All of the gods came running to help, and skilled Hephaestus grasped his tools and split open his father’s skull. Out sprang Athena, wearing the robes and the armor, her gray eyes flashing. Thunder roared and the gods stood in awe—”_

John stops as the book is snatched from his fingers. “Hey!”

“Where did you get this?” Sherlock demands.

“Julia Siviter. She thought Nero might like it. What the fuck, Sherlock?”

 _“Fook,”_ Nero says, scowling at his father.

Sherlock’s disturbed expression softens to a rueful smile. “This is your influence,” he says. “He’s going to be swearing like a sailor by the time he can walk.”  
  
“In this bloody family, he’s going to need the vocabulary. What’s wrong with Julia’s book?”  
  
“Nothing. I just think it’s a bit advanced for him.” Sherlock walks to the bookcase and puts the D’Aulaires on the highest shelf. He scans the titles. “How about _The Very Hungry Caterpillar_?”

“Yes, because Nero needs more motivation to eat.” John stands up. “Storytime is over, anyway. Come on, you,” he says to the baby in his arms. “Time to try out the new bed.”

Sherlock’s gaze darts over Nero’s cot. “So Michael and Gabriel triumphed in the end.”  
  
“The hell they did. That’s John Watson’s work you’re inspecting.”  
  
“My brother’s best men, defeated by flatpack furniture.”

“If IKEA ever weaponizes, the world is fucked.”

Nero makes a few grumbles as he’s lowered into the cot, but they’re token protests. Soon he’s fast asleep, his bear clutched in one arm. In the other arm is his new favorite, the badger. John waits until the baby’s breathing has evened out, then he moves both toys to the corner of the cot.

“That’s a new addition,” Sherlock says, nodding at the badger.

“Fan gift.” When Sherlock stares: “I know. But Nero has taken a shine to it. If the thing were poisonous he’d be a goner already. How one tiny tot can produce so much drool is a mystery.”  
  
“Mycroft was the same,” Sherlock says. “According to Ford, though you have to take his stories with a grain of salt. My brother loves to fictionalize.”

“How is Ford?” John says. “You left so fast today, I didn’t have a chance to ask about lunch.”  
  
“Brunch, actually,” Sherlock says. “Ford is—Ford. Rather more supercilious than usual, though. I believe he and Mycroft have had another falling out. Neither will talk to me about it, of course. But Ford is returning to California tomorrow, so it’s of little matter. He and Mycroft will punish each other with silence for a few months, then resume their usual seething rivalry.”

“You’d think they’d just chuck each other once and for all.”

“Oh, they can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“Then they wouldn’t have anyone to talk to.” 

John grins. “No Earth logic on Planet Holmes, is there? Lucky for Nero he’s an only child.”

Sherlock looks down at his son. “I suppose it’s lucky. But it can be—lonely.”

John understands. Though technically the youngest, Sherlock may as well have been an only, with two brothers a decade older than he is. Especially those brothers.

“Nero won’t be lonely,” Sherlock says. His tone is even, his face blank. You’d have to know him well to see the fierce purpose in his eyes.

There’s been gossip online about Sherlock’s relationship with Nero. He’s rarely seen with him, and Sherlock has never commented publically about his son. He isn’t one to change nappies or assemble cots, but if the fans ever saw him at storytime, they wouldn’t question his devotion.

Sherlock is a fantastic reader, his deep velvet voice wringing every scrap of significance out of simple children’s stories. When Sherlock holds Nero, reading about hungry caterpillars or green eggs and ham, there’s a special quality in his voice, a softness that John has never heard before. If the fans heard it, they would know his feelings. But they won’t: A few things are still private.

John turns on the baby monitor. They leave Nero and go into their room.

It’s half-past four in the afternoon, and neither of them is ready for sleep. That’s not what their teatime naps are about. It’s become a habit over the last week, when the minions have gone for the day and even Danica is downstairs in her flat. It’s the only time they’re guaranteed privacy. Even on his restless days, Nero sleeps for an hour. Plenty of time for a chat and a shag.

Sherlock takes off his coat, throwing it on the chair between the windows. He unbuttons his shirt, putting the cufflinks on the dresser. “Lestrade sends his regards,” he says.

“Mmm,” John says as he takes off his jumper.

“They’ve updated the coroner’s report on Gareth Williams. They don’t think anyone was with him when he died.” When John looks at him: “I know. A man somehow locks himself inside a duffel bag and smothers to death? That seems unlikely, even given Williams’ kinky proclivities.”  
  
“He was one of Mycroft’s men. Why not ask him for input?”  
  
“Mycroft has no interest in the matter.”  
  
“That’s suspicious right there.”  
  
“Definitely, but he’s not talking. Lestrade and his people are stumped.”  
  
“Oh well,” John says. He folds up his trousers and puts them in the closet. Naked but for pants, he stretches back on the bed.  
  
Sherlock, still half-dressed, perches on the edge of the chair. “Fancy a trip to Lillywhite’s later?”

“Since when do you care about sporting goods?”

“I quite like sporting goods. Footballs, crew socks, duffel bags—”

John sits up. _“No way.”_

“Think of it as a scientific experiment.”

“I’m not locking myself in a bloody duffel bag for the benefit of Greg Lestrade.”

“I’d do it, but I’m too tall. Williams was 5’8. I’d stay with you every moment—”  
  
“I’m going to check my e-mail.” John starts to get off the bed, but Sherlock pushes him back.

“All right,” he says. “Never mind.”

He sits behind John, wrapping his arms around him. Sherlock’s fingers play over John’s chest, tracing his collarbone and tweaking his nipples. Just as John is starting to relax, that familiar gooey warmth pooling in his belly, Sherlock says, “How long are you going to be angry?”  
  
“I’m not angry. Keep moving your hand down.”  
  
Sherlock obliges, fingers teasing under John’s waistband. “I meant with Lestrade.”

“I’m not angry with him. I’m done with him. There’s a difference.”

Sherlock falls back until they’re prone on the bed, John lying on top of him. He pulls John’s pants down and off. He kisses John’s neck while his fingers work John’s cock, coaxing him to full hardness. Then he climbs on top of John, kissing him deeply while he grinds against him. The friction of Sherlock’s wool trousers against John’s turgid flesh is painful, and he pulls at Sherlock’s clothes, stripping him until it’s skin on skin. _That’s_ better.

This is the best part of the day, when it’s just the two of them, no babies or minions or nannies. No part of them scrutinized by the press or held up for the public’s inspection. It makes him sad sometimes, to know they’ll never be anonymous again.

If there had been no St. Barts, they would never have had that screaming argument outside Baker Street. There would have been no six-month separation, no YouTube video, no paparazzi shots. No dead mothers and orphaned sons.

Sherlock pulls back, his hands cradling John’s face. “I worry. It’s unhealthy, this rage of yours.”

“You’re vastly overestimating how much I think about Lestrade.”  
  
“Not just him. You’re angry at the world.” Sherlock pauses. “And with me.”

“Bollocks. I married you.” John grins. “But I’m a bit miffed you’ve stopped touching my cock.”  
  
“You’re good at hiding your emotions,” Sherlock says. “I used to think that you were pitifully transparent, but you’re so good you can give the impression of candor while concealing everything. Fathoms of fury under a calm surface.” He kisses John’s forehead, whispering against his skin. “Sometimes you terrify me, John.”

John realizes he should have been more careful this week. He’s forgotten in the midst of tending Sherlock, just how smart his husband is. Sherlock sees too much, though this deduction is wrong.

John isn’t angry at Sherlock. He did experience one moment of rage on Monday morning, when he awoke to find Sherlock gone. But that emotion passed soon enough, replaced by a worry that was every bit as overwhelming. Stricken by the thought of Sherlock lying in the morgue, or rotting in some foreign jail. Then Sherlock was returned to him, and John felt nothing but relief.

John isn’t angry at Greg Lestrade, though he won’t work with him again. Lestrade added to the chaos last June, but he wasn’t the cause. Who has been the cause of their troubles from the night they met? Who is still lurking around the edges of their new life?   The serpent slithering in the dark, just waiting for his moment to strike.

John isn’t angry at James Moriarty. There are no words in English for how he feels. He might get closer in German. But even shrieking Teutonic consonants aren’t sufficient to express this emotion. Sometimes he thinks it will consume him from the inside out, a fire he can’t bank no matter how hard he tries. A ticking bomb in his chest, waiting to explode. It’s always with him, waking and sleeping, as he feeds the baby and updates the blog and makes love to his husband.

He can’t tell Sherlock about it. If John tells him his feelings, that will just stir him up again. Who knows what disastrous scheme Sherlock will try this time? So John won’t tell. Instead he’ll push his feelings down, into that dark, hollow place at the center of himself. The part of him that even Sherlock has never seen. It’s so empty and awful, nobody could stand it.

He realizes he’s been silent too long. Sherlock’s gaze is like a silvery dagger, cutting into him. But John knows Sherlock’s weakness. He wants to believe in John. He trusts John as he trusts no one else. John will use that against Sherlock. For his own good.

“I’m not angry,” he says softly. “I love you.”

Sherlock hesitates, but his eyes are huge, hungry. Nero's voraciousness, he comes by it honestly.

“Come here,” John says, and draws him close.

This is the easy part. He loves making love to Sherlock. When things were at their darkest, this was his only refuge, the thought of Sherlock’s face and lips and body. When he was sure that he would never see him again, the fantasy kept him going. Now he has the real thing, and it could be enough. It might fill that awful hollow place, if John could ever let Sherlock all the way in.

In another life, kissing is their best fate. Sherlock kisses John with his whole being, rough and ravenous, like he’s planning to swallow him. The passion and the need of it makes John ache. Only someone who has known real loneliness kisses you like this.

John pulls back, holding Sherlock’s face. He runs his fingers over those fine and lovely bones. He knows every millimeter. Every wrinkle in the forehead, every curve of the lips. If he had the talent, he could draw it from memory. He doesn’t, so he kisses it instead. Forehead, cheeks, the tip of his nose. A kiss on each eyelid, his long lashes tickling John’s mouth. A kiss on Sherlock’s mouth, so soft and wonderful. John used to dream of this mouth, but the need was despair. He thought the real thing was ashes in the earth. But it isn’t. John could cry at the truth of that. At the memory of his own gutting anguish.  Maybe one day he’ll tell Sherlock about it, but not today.

Today, John is the one who gets inside. He needs that with sudden desperation.

“Turn over,” he rasps. As Sherlock does, John scrambles in the nightstand for lube.

He runs a hand down Sherlock’s spine. He traces to those two delicious dimples right above his ass. God, he wants him. So much that he’s nauseous with it. But it’s a sweet sickness, wanting something you know you’ll have soon. As many times as you want it, because it’s yours.

He slickens his fingers with lube. He tries to explore Sherlock gently, but he’s so fucking crazy with randiness that he’s not as careful as he should be. Sherlock hisses with the feel of it, but he doesn’t pull away. Instead he presses back against him, encouraging him deeper, and then John can’t wait another second to have Sherlock. He plunges into the gorgeous silky warmth of him.

John fucks him for a long time. Slow, slow, but with purpose. He wants Sherlock to feel this; he wants him to know. How deep John can go, how far he can get in.

He thrusts and thrusts. He hovers on the edge of orgasm, but he can’t get there. Sherlock comes once, gasping, and again, shouting. But still John can’t come. He knows what’s will happen after he does. He knows his fate, waiting just downstairs.

With one of his graceful, sneaky moves, Sherlock slips away. He turns around, facing him.

“John,” he says. He looks into his eyes. His hand closes around John’s cock, pulling gently.

John can come then. Not from the touch, though it’s exquisite. From Sherlock’s gaze. Falling into it is like plunging into calm waters. His climax is a cool wave washing over him.

For a while they just look at each other, submerged. The fire inside John is banked to embers. He is at peace.

But you can’t stay under forever. Too soon, he returns to himself. He kisses his husband, and it’s a calculating kiss. Meant to soothe and distract, and it works.

When John leaves him, Sherlock is snoozing as peacefully as Nero. It’s only half-past five, but the father’s sleep patterns can be as erratic as the son’s. Right now, John is glad about that.

He needs this time. Tying his dressing gown around him, he heads downstairs to the lounge.

John goes to the big bear in the corner and reaches under its bow tie. He stares at the flashdrive for a moment, amazed by its smallness. You’d think your fate would be bigger.

Sitting at the table again, he puts the drive in the laptop. John looks at the neat yellow folders. He’s sure he’ll read everything closely in the coming days, but he doesn’t need the details now. What do they matter, anyway? Neville gave him the jist of everything this morning.

James Moriarty’s childhood was a horror. Poverty, neglect, loss: So much damage done early. John might feel a twinge of pity for him, if his own childhood hadn’t been so rough. Not as bad as Moriarty’s, but John knows what it is to be hungry. He knows the feelings of a child who has been abandoned by those he trusts most. Because he knows, he doesn’t pity.

Moriarty had choices. Bad ones at first, but his marvelous brain gave him options which were denied to others. He could have been anything, and he chose to be a monster. He chose not to feel, until feeling became impossible. That’s why he’s come after Sherlock. Sherlock’s beauty, his privilege, his attacks on Moriarty’s empire—these are factors. But the core of the vendetta is Sherlock’s humanity. That a man as brilliant as Moriarty can also feel: It can’t be tolerated.

He’ll never stop. However famous Richard Brook gets, Moriarty won’t forget about Sherlock. Why does Moriarty even bother with Brook? Julia was right, he can’t afford the exposure. It's stupid, and Moriarty isn't that. Even more reckless is his choice of stage name, one linked to his true identity. The real name of his brother.  

Did Moriarty’s brother want to be an actor?

It doesn’t matter. _Cineri gloria sera venit:_ John looked it up on Google. _‘Fame comes too late to the dead.’_ The real Richard Brook died 25 years ago. The fake one doesn’t have much longer.

John opens the bookmark for Channel 4. He brings up the video of Richard Brook’s interview. He mutes the sound—he doesn’t need it. All he needs is that face. He knows every millimeter of it. The high white forehead, the thin lips and round cheeks. The eyes are the key. Some fans find Brook cute, but all John sees is those eyes, their darkness and deadness.

John sees Moriarty. As clearly as he saw Sherlock a few minutes ago, when he got deep inside him. They are the ones you see clearest: the one you want, and the one you kill. Having a man and killing him, the feelings are close. Moriarty must have known that, when he could still feel.

Releasing these files will kill Moriarty. Like most monsters, he can’t stand the light of day. Maybe John will get to shoot him—he hopes so. But this is the real silver bullet.

John brings up Reddit and 4chan. He distills Moriarty’s story into a few short paragraphs and three images, Moriarty as a child and the two sets of fingerprints. He ruminates a minute, then attaches the death photo of Katie O’Brien. He lets his cursor linger over the SUBMIT buttons.

Neville begged him to think. How pointless, thinking. It’s much better to feel.

He lets it wash over him. This feeling which could be called rage if it didn’t cut so deep. It makes him hot all over. He’s panting from it. His mind is totally blank except for two words.

_HAVE HIM HAVE HIM HAVE HIM HAVE HIM_

Two clicks, and it’s done.  

He hears Nero fussing on the baby monitor. He goes to the fridge and heats a bottle. As John goes upstairs with it, he’s smiling. Spent.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out my brand-new Tumblr! It contains my various pop culture musings. I also include metacommentary on _Miracle Year_ , whenever I'm in the mood:
> 
> http://chase820.tumblr.com/


	59. Chapter 59

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, darling readers!
> 
> I know it's been a while since my last update. It wasn't because I didn't want to continue with my characters, but I've been suffering from some fairly serious health problems over the past year, which have slowed my output considerably. However, I had a surgery this summer which should (hopefully) take care of things, and as I continue to get better my writing should benefit.
> 
> This update puts all of the ducks in a row for the climax of the story, which is coming in the next update. It concentrates quite a bit on the older Holmes brothers, Mycroft and Sherrinford, since they're going to have a major part in the climax. I hope you'll enjoy spending time with them as much as I have.
> 
> Special thanks as always goes out to my lovely and talented beta, Mustangsally, for all of her affection and support. This update couldn't have happened without her. Thanks so much, hon!
> 
> And now, on with the update. If you like it, I would love to hear from you. Happy reading!

** Mycroft **

_December 1979_

In the darkness the voice comes, breaking into a rather nice dream Mycroft was having about Mrs. Thompson’s mince pies. The voice is singing in a high, sweet tenor. The song is silly but oddly hypnotic. Especially when repeated over and over. _  
_

_“Sim-ply hav-ing a wonderful Christmastime! Sim-ply hav-ing a wonderful Christmastime!”_

“Go away.” Mycroft’s words are muffled by his pillow. The voice keeps on, enunciating the first four syllables of the lyrics exactly the way McCartney does it on the bloody 45.

_“Sim-ply hav-ing a wonderful Christmastime! Sim-ply hav-ing a wonderful Christmastime!”_

“Sherry, enough.”

_“The choir of children sing their song. Ding-dong, ding-dong. Ding-dong, ding-dong!”_

 With every _ding_ and every _dong_ , Mycroft is poked sharply in the shoulder.

 He sits straight up in bed. “I swear to God—”

 Mycroft cuts off with a wheeze as he’s squeezed tightly around the middle.

 “Happy Christmas, Mikey!”

Mycroft disengages himself, squinting at his brother. Even in the darkness, the gleam of Sherrinford’s teeth is evident. They’re slightly out of kilter, but the smile is charming as ever.

 Mycroft is too exhausted to be charmed. “What are you doing? It’s the middle of the night.”  
  
“ _Au contraire, mon frère._ It’s morning. Time for prezzies!” Sherrinford bounces up and down, making the bedframe squeak.

“Father said we weren’t to come down before eight. Mummy needs her sleep.”  
  
“Sod sleep!”

“He said there would be _consequences.”_   

Sherrinford, rather deflated, stops bouncing. “I like it better when he’s away for Christmas.   Mummy never minds if we start early.”

“Mummy’s glad he’s home.” Mycroft pauses. “I am too, of course. The baby will be here soon.”

“Hope so. Mummy’s gotten terribly fat.”

“Are you going back to bed?”  
  
“Nope,” Sherrinford says. “If we can’t go downstairs, we’ll start up here.”

He turns on the bedside lamp. Once Mycroft’s eyes adjust, he sees his brother perched on the edge of the bed, wearing his favorite _Star Wars_ t-shirt and stripy blue pajama bottoms. On his lap is a present, something roughly spherical done up in layers of wadded gilt paper.

“I wrapped it myself!” Sherrinford says.

“Why didn’t you put it under the tree?”

“You have something from me under the tree: _Chopin’s Complete Preludes and Etudes_. Father will approve.” Sherrinford rolls his eyes. “This is the real present.” He holds it out.

Mycroft takes it. “I feel bad. I don’t have anything for you.”  
  
“Except for what’s under the tree.”  
  
“Kipling’s _Kim_ , a rather nice hardcover with annotations.”

“How educational. Thanks very much.”  
  
“You’re very welcome. But I wish I’d gotten you something fun— _oh wait_.” He grins. “I did.”

Mycroft fumbles in the bedside table. He pulls out a neatly wrapped square, tossing it into his brother’s lap. “Don’t know how it slipped my mind. Must be the sleep deprivation.”

“Sod off,” Sherrinford says. “What is it?”

“Open it.”  
  
“You first.”  
  
“Together.”

They rip into their packages with gusto. Sherrinford, unhampered by all those extra layers of paper, finishes first. He stares at his present, eyes wide behind his spectacles.

“I don’t believe it! _You found him.”_

Mycroft has been hearing about it for months, how Sherrinford’s Han Solo action figure little resembles the real thing. Apparently Sherry wasn’t the only one dissatisfied, because Palitoy has released a new model which is supposed to look more like Harrison Ford. But the new and improved figures are hard to find: It took Mycroft seven trips to Woolworth’s on a Tuesday, the day the new shipments come in. Seven Tuesdays of wheedling Mrs. Thompson into taking him.

“My God, Mikey. Are you a wizard? Where did you find this?”  
  
“Happened across it,” Mycroft says, shrugging. “Thought you might like it.”

_“Like_ him? He’s brilliant.” Sherrinford turns the bubblecard around so Mycroft can see Han. “This is a much better likeness,” he says, looking serious. “Don’t you think?”

Actually, Mycroft can’t tell much difference at all, except that Han’s head is larger. But he nods. “Much better.”

Sherrinford carefully sets Han on the bed beside him. “Well, this is going to be a letdown,” he says. “But I suppose you’d better see what I got you.”

Mycroft rips away the last few layers of paper. He holds up the black plastic ball with its cloudy window. Even with the toy still in the packaging, he sees a message:

_Outlook not so good._

“Oh. This is—nice.”

“I know,” Sherrinford sighs.   “It’s not Han. It’s not the bloody Ouija board I wanted to get you, either. But Mummy put her foot down, said we’d end up possessed or something. I don’t think she’s ever got over seeing _The Exorcist_. This was the compromise.” He nods at the Magic 8-ball. “Still, it will give you some clue about what’s coming, won’t it?”

“You know this can’t really tell the future. It’s no more accurate than a horoscope.”

“Use your imagination, mate. There are more things in heaven and earth, and all that rot. But if you don’t like it, I suppose I can take it back. Get you some more sheet music or something.” He reaches for the 8-ball, but Mycroft holds it out of reach.

“I do like it. It’s—whimsical. I just don’t expect it to tell me anything important.”  

“Try, at least. Ask it a question. Something you’d like to know.”

“All right.” Mycroft ponders a moment. “Magic 8-ball, will Mummy have the baby this week?”

He shakes the ball and peers at the window. _My sources say no._

“Mummy won’t be thrilled,” Sherrinford says. “She’s tired of being fat.” He takes the 8-ball from Mycroft. “Magic 8-ball, will the baby be a girl?”

“Of course it’s going to be a girl. Father is certain.”  
  
Sherrinford rolls his eyes and shakes the ball. He frowns at the window. “ _It is certain.”_

“See?”

“Thought you didn’t believe in these things,” Sherrinford mutters. He regards the 8-ball again. “Will our sister be pretty?”

“What does that matter?”  
  
“Do you want to be seen with some minger? I don’t.” He shakes the ball vigorously and peers at the window.   “ _Without a doubt._ That’s a relief.”

“Give me that.” Mycroft snatches the ball. “Will she be clever?” He shakes, peers. “ _Yes_.” He nods, satisfied. Then: “Will our sister be good?” Shake.

_Better not tell you now._

“Pretty, clever, and possibly evil,” Sherrinford says, stretching forward to look at the window. “We know who Daddy’s new favorite is going to be.”

 Mycroft puts the 8-ball on the bedside table. “Thank you,” he says.

“I try to please.” Sherrinford yawns. “What time is it?”  
  
“Quarter to six. I told you it was early.”  
  
“Scooch over, would you?”  

“You have a bed next door.”  
  
“All the way next door. Too exhausted to make it that far. Probably faint in the hallway and break my head. Then you’ll feel guilty, won’t you?”  
  
Mycroft gives this whining the attention it deserves, which is none. But he scooches over. The bed isn’t very wide, but neither of them is very large. Sherrinford puts Han and his spectacles on the table. He puts out the light and lies down beside Mycroft. They fit as snugly as peas in a pod.

Sherrinford seems to settle right down, but Mycroft is restless. He never can get back to sleep once he’s been really awakened. He stares at the picture over his bed, the mermaid combing her hair, auburn locks brilliant against her white skin. She’s so pretty, the mermaid. He’s content to look at her for the next couple of hours, until his brother wakes and they can go downstairs.

He’s surprised when Sherrinford fidgets and says softly, “I love my present.”  
  
“I’m glad.”  
  
“You went to a lot of trouble to get it, didn’t you?”  
  
“Not so much trouble. Mrs. Thompson helped.”  
  
“Hmm. It must have been a pitched battle every time, getting her down to Woolworth’s. I know you went more than once. Much more, probably. But you kept on, didn’t you? You’re so good that way, Mikey.” He pauses. “You can play with Han whenever you like.”  
  
Sherrinford hoards his action figures like a dragon hoards gold. Mycroft is touched. “Thanks.”  
  
“Harrison Ford is amazing, isn’t he? Remember when we saw _Star Wars_ , and Han shot Greedo in the cantina? The way he sat in that booth, his hand on his blaster. He was so—” Sherrinford stretches his arm out, fingers fluttering, as if reaching for something he can’t quite touch.

He puts his arm down, sighing. “Han is cool.”  
  
“I like Princess Leia.”  
  
“I do too,” Sherrinford says quickly. “She’s—sexy. Never heard of a bra, has she?”

“Maybe in the future women don’t need them.”  
  
“ _Star Wars_ isn’t the future. Or maybe it is. Lucas isn’t really clear on that, is he?” Sherrinford yawns again. “That is the sort of thing one should be clear about. If I made a movie, you’d know just where you were at all times. I’d make signs or something.”

They’re silent for a few moments. Mycroft’s fingers pick at the quilt. “Sherrinford?”  
  
“What?”

“Do you think Mummy is going to be all right?”  
  
“Why wouldn’t she be?”  
  
“Well—she’s rather old to be having a baby, isn’t she?”  
  
Sherrinford considers this. “Thirty-three is rather old,” he admits. “But she has a very good doctor. The best in the city, Mrs. Thompson says.”  
  
“I know. Still, I worry about it. Remember when Mummy read us _Oliver Twist_? Oliver’s mother died in childbirth.”  
  
“That was in the 19 th Century. People don’t die like that anymore.”

“Aunt Harriet died. And Great-Uncle Evelyn. They were younger than Mummy is now. Great-Uncle Thomas wasn’t 40, and his wife _did_ die in childbirth. Poor Aunt Elinor, and the baby died too. Both her babies died. Do you know what Granny Hettie told me once? Those babies were _wrong_. Deformed and—and covered in sores. What if our sister comes out like that? What if Mummy—” he hears his voice shaking, and he stops.

Sherrinford turns over to face him. He puts a hand on Mycroft’s cheek, the touch warm and comforting. Mycroft can’t help leaning into it.

“Granny Hettie is an awful old lush. I told you not to listen to her stories. Everything is going to be fine. You must stop worrying: It’s going to make your hair fall out.” He tugs at his brother’s forelock. “Is that what you want? To be bald like Great-Grandpa Edmund? Are you going to get fat, too?” He pokes Mycroft in his flat belly.

Mycroft giggles before he can stifle the sound. “No.”

“Hope not. I don’t want a fat brother any more than I want an ugly sister. There are limits.” Sherrinford turns onto his back. “That’s why I got you the 8-ball.”  
  
“So I wouldn’t get fat?”  
  
“So you wouldn’t worry. Next time you think everything is going pear-shaped, ask the 8-ball. It’s not a Ouija board, but it’s better than nothing. Come to think of it, you shouldn’t use a Ouija board at Chapel Street. Probably conjure up Grandpa Edmund—there’s a spook you don’t want chasing you about. Or Uncle Evie, with half his head missing. Too many ghosts here, Mikey. Who wants to live in a house that’s 160 years old? _I_ don’t.”

“Things have been better here lately,” Mycroft says. “Haven’t they?”  
  
“Yes, since Mum found out she was pregnant again. Father’s chuffed about the baby. I’m not sure why—he hasn’t exactly been a doting daddy to us, has he? Maybe he’s getting soft in his old age. He’s really old, you know. Forty-seven! He could keel over any second.”  

Mycroft’s fingers dig into the mattress. “Do you really think—”

“Christ, I was joking. None of us is going anywhere. Not Mummy or the baby, not Father. Definitely not you and me. Not for a few years, anyway, until we go to Eton.”

Mycroft doesn’t like to think about Eton. If he and Sherrinford could go together it wouldn’t be so bad, but though they’re often mistaken for twins, they’re not. For the first year, Sherrinford will go alone. Mycroft hates that. Mummy is always encouraging them to make other friends, and he does try. But it’s exhausting. Other boys are so stupid. His brother is better at it, but Mycroft knows that Sherrinford thinks those boys are stupid, too. He’s just better at faking.

Mycroft can feel himself getting nervous again. He can’t seem to help it. He wasn’t always so nervous, but over time it’s gotten harder to be calm. Maybe Sherrinford is right—it’s Chapel Street. There are too many shadows in this house; it’s too quiet. Mummy and Daddy are quiet. Mycroft can remember them talking, even laughing, when he was very little. But it hasn’t been that way for a long time. When Daddy is away, it’s even quieter. Mummy sits in the lounge by herself, a glass of wine in her hand, reading. She’s always reading—stacks of books.

But things have been better since Mummy told them about the baby. Daddy isn’t away so often; he and Mummy talk. Two weeks ago, Mycroft heard them laughing together in the new nursery upstairs. The sound startled him, it was so unfamiliar.

Daddy has talked to him about the baby. How he must look after her. Girls need that. Mycroft is looking forward to meeting her. His sister will be Harriet, and she’ll be lovely and clever and good. He’ll take care of her: He owes her that. She brought light and sound back into the house.

He takes a breath, willing himself to be calm. He pries his fingers from the edge of the mattress. Everything will be fine. It’s dark and quiet, but it’s also warm and safe. He can hear his brother’s breathing, deep and even with sleep. Sherrinford is pressed up against him. There is something so comforting in that. Mycroft feels sorry for Harriet, who will have no twin of her own.

Perhaps she will. Mummy is old, but if she can have one new baby, she can have another. Two pretty little girls, what a nice idea. Anybody would be pleased about that.  
  
Mycroft considers names for his other sister. Violet would be lovely, but perhaps too confusing. Elizabeth, maybe, after Mum’s mum. She died two years ago, but Mycroft remembers her as a plump, comforting person, who always had a tray of iced buns when they visited. Grandmother Betty smelled like rosewater and read them fairy tales, no reek of sherry and stories about dead babies. Yes, Elizabeth will do very well. Mycroft will call her Bess.

He’s deciding whether he will put the girls in the room across the hall or selflessly give up his own room, with its pictures of mermaids and superior view, when he falls into a gentle doze. Not a true sleep, but something softer, sweeter. When he comes out of it, the sun is shining. Sherrinford is singing. It’s Christmas Day.

 

* * *

 

 

_July 1986_

When he is able to sleep, Mycroft always sleeps soundly. Which is why the noises must have been going on for some time before he was awakened by them. Had he been alone in this, he would have ignored what was happening. But he isn’t, and he rises immediately.

He finds Sherlock in the hallway outside Sherrinford’s door. The boy’s eyes are like saucers. They widen further with every squeak and moan. Seeing this reaction makes Mycroft’s hands clench. But he isn’t angry at his little brother.

“Sherlock, go to bed.”  
  
“But Sherrinford—”

“Is occupied. It’s none of your affair.”  
  
“What is Stephen doing to him?”

“Stephen?”  

“Your friend from school. Sherrinford said they’d be right out, but they’ve been _ages.”_

Mycroft chooses his next words carefully. He makes his voice remain calm. “Sherrinford knows you’re awake, and he went in there? With Stephen Hastings?”

Sherlock nods.

Mycroft is silent a minute.

“Mycroft, your hand—!”

He glances down and sees his fingernails digging into his palm. He spots a single drop of blood and wipes his hand on his dressing gown.

“Go to bed.”

“But—”

_“Now,_ young man. Or there will be no trip to the museum tomorrow.”  
  
Sherlock scoots into his room and shuts the door. Mycroft turns back to Sherrinford’s door. He pauses, concentrating on the grain of the wood. Only when the red spots have left the edges of his vision does he trust himself to knock.

It takes a dozen, the last of them more like pounding, before the door opens. His brother is standing there, stark-naked and fully erect. Mycroft is surprised—this is shameless even for Sherrinford—until he sees Sherrinford’s pupils. They’re so dilated, his eyes are black.

“Fuck off,” Sherrinford starts to slam the door, but Mycroft gets his foot in and pushes it wide.

“What the bloody hell are you doing?”

Sherrinford grins, and the contrast with those blown pupils is ghastly _. “You_ know, Mikey-boy. It hasn’t been that long since your trip to the whorehouse.”

“Stop this at once.”  
  
“You sound just like Father. Do you fuck like him, too? Guess we’ll have to ask the whores. Hey, did you and Siger share? Can’t be too careful in this economy—”

Sherrinford cuts off as Mycroft slams him into the door. “Bloody hell!” a voice says from inside the room. Mycroft spares only a fleeting glance at the slim blond boy cowering on the bed. The red sparks are back, swirling in the air like someone lit a bonfire. Sherrinford is laughing, but he stops as Mycroft gets both hands around his throat.

“You promised,” Mycroft hisses. “After last time, you said you wouldn’t. Never again.”

“I—lied,” Sherrinford chokes. Somehow he’s still smiling. The sight of that makes the whole world go red. Mycroft can barely see his brother now, but he squeezes tighter.

“With our baby brother right outside. You brought _him_ here, to this house. _How dare you—”_

With each of the last three words, he slams that smirking head into the wood. The redness has taken all. He’s not sure where he is, or when. He could be anywhere. He could be ten years old, climbing the stairs to the second floor.

_His stomach hurts, and he wants his mum. He pushes the door open gently. The naked people on the bed don’t see. But he sees. Mummy is here but Daddy isn’t—_

He’s screaming something, vicious profanities in two languages, but he doesn’t know what he’s saying. All he knows is rage, a fire that scorches him from the inside out.

“Mycroft, stop! _Please_ stop!”  
  
That hysterical little voice slits through the red haze like an arrow. Mycroft stumbles backwards, opening his hands. Sherrinford slides down the door, coughing and choking. Sherlock stares at them with eyes like shattered mirrors. Then he doubles over and vomits.

It takes half an hour to get Sherlock quieted, bathed, and put back to bed. Mycroft emerges from his brother’s bedroom and sees that the vomit has been cleaned up. Stephen Hastings stands in the hallway, fully dressed and holding a towel. Behind him, Sherrinford’s door is shut.

Mycroft takes the towel from Stephen. He walks a few steps and drops it into the laundry chute.

“I’m sorry,” Stephen says.  
  
“Get out.”

“You don’t understand, I couldn’t help it—”

“I’ve always known what you are. I don’t care. But my _brother,_ Stephen.”

“It was the coke,” he whispers.

“I hope you were sober enough to use protection. Sherrinford is free with his favors.”  
  
Stephen looks at him pleadingly. “It won’t happen again.”  
  
Mycroft shrugs. Stephen clutches at him, but Mycroft pushes him away. Normally, being touched without warning irritates him, but he’s beyond that now. He feels nothing.  
  
“Get out, Hastings, before I call your father. Sir Charles is liberal in his political views, but I don’t think he’d take the news that his son is a shirt-lifter very well, do you?”

Stephen moves so fast, he almost trips going downstairs. Mycroft follows at a calmer pace. He closes the door behind Stephen and engages the security system. He returns upstairs.

He goes into his own room and lies on the bed. Everything is calm now, the third floor returned to its usual hush. But he knows it’s no good. It’s two in the morning, but he’ll never sleep.

He considers masturbation. But Sherlock might wake up again, and there are no locks on these bloody doors. And given his outing last weekend, self-abuse could be seen as self-indulgence.

With a sigh, Mycroft rises. He goes to his desk and turns on the lamp. He opens a novel, so old that it’s in three separate volumes. He’s read it many times before, but he doesn’t mind starting again. Reading the opening sentence is like greeting an old and dear friend. Someone as kind and comforting as his Grandmother Betty, who left him this first edition.

_It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife._

Mycroft is fond of Elizabeth Bennet, so sharp in her wits, so sterling in her principles. But he is even more impressed by Mr. Darcy. Let others relish the _sturm und drang_ of the Byronic hero: Mycroft doesn’t think much of him. While Rochester nurses grievances and corrupts the help, Darcy keeps things in order. He works quietly but relentlessly, until the sociopath who menaces their world has been defeated. Darcy’s goodness and strength go unappreciated for most of the story, but in the end, everyone realizes his true worth. He’s rewarded with the wife he deserves.

_Pride and Prejudice_ is Mycroft’s favorite story.

He stays in Austen’s happy, orderly world until his eyes are prickling from dryness, and his back is aching. When he stands, stretching, he sees rosy dawn light coming through the window.

He walks across the hall to Sherlock’s room. His brother is curled on one side, deeply asleep. Mycroft is relieved. He will wake Sherlock in two hours and try to get him to eat something. For now, he doesn’t have to worry about him.

He considers going downstairs and having something himself. Mrs. Thompson won’t be on duty yet, but he’s quite capable of making his own toast. Normally he would enjoy a quiet repast, but he’s not hungry this morning. (He’s felt unusually sated since Saturday. It’s odd.)

He goes to the bath, washing his face and brushing his teeth. He returns to his own room and dresses in grey trousers and a crisp white shirt. He pauses a moment, staring out the window. Then he looks at the right-hand wall.

He grimaces, and goes downstairs to the kitchen.

He makes toast with strawberry jam and puts it on a plate. He fills a glass with orange juice and takes a banana from the bunch in the pantry. He eats none of these things. Instead, he puts the food on a tray and takes it back upstairs, to the first room on the right.

Sherrinford is awake, as Mycroft knew he would be. He’s lying on his bed reading a book: _Less Than Zero._ He’s wearing his headphones, the sound low enough that Mycroft can’t make out the music. Sherrinford is also wearing spectacles, which is something of a surprise. He’s worn them less and less over the past year.

Behind his spectacles, Sherrinford’s eyes are no more welcoming than they were earlier. But at least he’s put something on. A dressing gown of crimson wool, moth-eaten but still luxurious. A family heirloom, but Mycroft doesn’t envy its possession.

Sherrinford takes off his headphones. He stares at the tray, then at Mycroft.

“I brought you some breakfast.”

“Fuck you.” Sherrinford’s voice is raspy.

“Drink the orange juice at least. It will help your throat.”  
  
Sherrinford tries to say something else, but he breaks off with a painful cough. Glaring, he jerks out a hand, and Mycroft puts the glass in it. Sherrinford takes a long swallow, the muscles in his throat working. Mycroft watches until he notices the bruising there. Then he looks away.

He sets the tray on the bedside table. He turns to go.

“Wait,” Sherrinford says, his voice stronger now.

Mycroft turns.

“What is all this?”  
  
“I knew you’d be—unwell.”  
  
“Hungover as fuck. You care because?”  
  
Mycroft shrugs.

“Guilty, are we?”  
  
“No.”

“You _attacked_ me.”  
  
“You seduced Stephen.”  
  
“Please. You think he’s an idiot.”  
  
This is true. But he’s less of an idiot than most of the boys at school, and one has to eat lunch with someone. At least Stephen can sometimes make intelligent conversation, though his obsession with Byron wears on Mycroft’s nerves.

“You should’ve come out when he asked you. Stevie says he always asks, but you never go.”  
  
“I don’t like nightclubs.”  
  
“Poor Stevie, standing alone in the corner, not quite dancing to Wang Chung. A chickenhawk’s wet dream, completely clueless. I did him a favor.”  
  
“How considerate,” Mycroft says. “Eat your breakfast.” He puts his hand on the doorknob.

“Where the hell are you going? We’re not done.”

Mycroft turns, bristling. “You’re dictating to me?”  
  
“You strangled me. Sit down and have some fucking toast. You know I hate eating alone.”  
  
Mycroft sits in the desk chair. He picks up a piece of toast and takes a bite. Mrs. Thompson’s homemade jam is delicious, but he still doesn’t have much appetite.

Sherrinford has picked up the remaining piece of toast. His fingers pick at the edges of the bread, stripping the crust off. “Siger gets home tomorrow.”  
  
“Yes.”

“When he walks through the door, what news will you have for him?”

“I haven’t considered it.”  
  
“Oh, I don’t believe that. I think you’ve been considering all night. I might take this nutritious breakfast as a peace offering, but I’m wary of geeks bearing gifts.”  
  
“What are you babbling about, Sherrinford?”  
  
He throws the toast on the plate. “Are you going to tell Father?”  
  
“I never do.”  
  
“Not lately. But we know your snitchy history.”  
  
“Is this how you buy my silence?   With jibes?”  
  
“I’m not buying anything. You owe me this. A year of self-defense lessons, and they’ve never told you the consequences of crushing someone’s trachea? You could have killed me.”

Mycroft looks down, saying nothing. Father has warned him about his temper. _When you become angry, you give your opponent the advantage. You can learn every martial art, collect every weapon, but if you don’t remain calm, you’re defeated before you begin._ Think, _Mycroft._

Sherrinford isn’t an opponent. Though he did promise not to bring any more boys home, and he broke his word. Still, Mycroft’s response was excessive. He’s not proud of it.

“I apologize,” he says, still looking at the floor. “I shouldn’t have touched you.”

“I don’t know why you freaked. I’d think you were in love with Stephen, but we know better. What do you care if I fuck his brains out?”

Mycroft’s chin jerks up. “Are you totally obtuse? Our brother was standing outside your room. You know how sensitive he is. How can I explain this to him? You do it again and again, as if you can’t stop. My God, what’s wrong with you?”

“So solicitous,” Sherrinford whispers. “I guess it’s easy, when everything comes so naturally.”  
  
Mycroft looks at him for a moment. “I see,” he says. “This has nothing to do with Stephen or Sherlock. They were just collateral damage.”

He throws his cold toast into the waste bin, feeling himself redden. “This is about last Saturday.”

He doesn’t want to talk about this with Sherrinford. They should be past self-consciousness, but this cuts deeper. After what happened last August, his brother’s opinion is the last one he wants. He already knows how Sherrinford feels.

“It wasn’t—” he stops, clenching his hands on his thighs. “It was just something for me to—do. Don’t take it as a reproach.”  
  
“Are you that fucking naïve?”  
  
“Why does everything have to be about you?” Mycroft snaps. “Saturday was my outing with Father. _My_ time. Do you understand?”

Sherrinford smiles. There’s no humor in it: The expression would be awful even if his eyes weren’t so red. Mycroft hasn’t seen his brother cry in a year; the redness is cocaine and sleep deprivation. But there’s something in his face that’s worse than tears.

“Did you have a good time, Mike?” Sherrinford rasps. He finishes the juice in two big swallows. When he sets the glass down, his hand is shaking.

Mycroft considers lying, but Sherrinford will know. He’ll see the lie, the same way Mycroft sees how disturbed his brother is about this. How devastated.

“Yes,” Mycroft says. “I did.”  
  
Sherrinford bites his lip. “Was Victoria there?”  
  
“I don’t know. The girl I saw was called Elaine.”  
  
“Elaine,” Sherrinford says softly. “Nice.”

“She was nice,” Mycroft says. “Young.”

No more than 20, he was sure. Auburn-haired, lovely. He wanted to ask how it happened, what choices she had made to end up in that room with him. He didn’t ask, of course.

He hasn’t thought about it much this week. He enjoyed the feeling of relief as much as the act itself. _Well, that’s done_ , he thought, as he put his trousers on again. He can’t remember how the girl looked when he left. He remembers Father’s face more clearly. The approval he saw there.

He keeps his expression neutral. But his brother sees—something. Sherrinford’s face goes blank.

“Let me tell you a story,” he says. “Will you listen?”  
  
Mycroft isn’t in the mood. But maybe it will be a needed distraction for Sherrinford. He nods.  
  
“Close your eyes.”

Feeling rather silly, Mycroft obeys. When Sherrinford speaks again his voice is softer, a little sing-song. His storyteller’s voice: He sounds like this when he reads to Sherlock.

“It’s last Saturday night. You’re sitting with Father in the Bentley. He’s smoking, of course, the streetlights shining on his cunning old face. As he drives, he’s going on about something: South Africa, probably. You don’t agree with him, but you say nothing. There are butterflies in your stomach and an ache in your head. You’re nervous as hell but trying not to show it.  

“Finally, the Bentley pulls up to the curb in front of a certain house in St. John’s Wood. There shouldn’t be an open parking space, but of course there’s one for him. He turns off the car and nods at you to get out. You and Father mount the front steps—”

Mycroft opens his eyes.   “Sherrinford. I’m not comfortable with this.”

“Bear with me. No point being bashful, eh? We’ve both been there.”

 Sherrinford smiles at him. It’s a nice smile. The kind he used to give him long ago, sweet and cajoling. Mycroft sighs. “Just don’t get—weird.”  
  
“No weirdness, I promise. Close your eyes, Mikey.” He begins again.

“Frances opens the door. You don’t know what a madam is supposed to look like, and you weren’t expecting this. She’s blonde and gracious, beautifully dressed. If you saw her having tea at the Ritz, you wouldn’t bat an eye. She kisses Father on the cheek. You expect him to be offended, but he smiles. A different kind of smile than you’ve ever seen before. _Roguish._ Frances chucks you under the chin; she calls you a handsome boy.

“Trailing Shalimar and self-satisfaction, she leads the two of you into the main lounge. There are other men there, and they nod respectfully at Siger and smirk knowingly at you. Girls are there, too. All of them are young, pretty in a dewy way, though they’re dressed in lingerie.

“But you don’t get to choose one of them. Siger smiles again. ‘I’ve arranged something special,’ he says. Together, you walk past the girls and go up the back staircase.

“Upstairs is a hallway. It ends in a door. Behind the door, someone is waiting for you. You’ve never met, but soon you’ll know them well. You walk down the hall. Your footsteps are silent, muffled by the thick carpet. All you hear is the thudding of your heart.

“As you stand outside the door, you want to run. But you don’t. You look at Father. He’s not smiling now. He’s very serious. ‘Don’t disappoint me,’ he says. Then he walks away, going back towards the stairs. You’re alone. You put your hand on the knob and open the door.

“The bedroom is very nice, very plush. It’s dominated by a four-poster bed made of some dark, glossy wood. There are paintings hung on the walls: posh people in archaic clothes, set against Arcadian landscapes. The bed linens are a creamy fabric that shimmers, matching the upholstery of the chair by the fireplace. The room smells of roses and something darker. Piquant.  

“‘Come in, sweetie,’ a voice says. You look towards it and meet a pair of very dark eyes, set in a very pretty face. An exotic face, broad of cheekbone and full of lip. Nothing like the faces you saw downstairs. It’s framed by thick black curls, so shiny and full you want to touch them.

“If you could just stay focused on the face, perhaps it would be all right. But your eyes must move down, over a smooth brown body. A beautiful body, you can see that. But it’s—wrong.

_“He_ is wrong. Those tight pectoral muscles, those well-defined abs. Those long, muscular legs, downed with dark brown hair. Most wrong of all, what’s under the silk boxers he’s wearing. A long, hard, brown _cock.”_

Mycroft’s eyes fly open. “Sherrinford. Stop.”

“Oh no. I’m not done.” He rises from the bed. He closes the few steps that separate them. His dressing gown sways around him, rich and red as the day Uncle Evie died in it.

He looms over Mycroft’s chair. Sherrinford is pale and polluted from last night’s debauchery. He’s thin as a wraith. But he’s still striking, the symmetry of his face unmarred. His grey eyes are blazing: Spectacles don’t dim their fires at all.

“You can see it, can’t you?” he whispers. “Even now, with your eyes wide open. You smell roses and your own fear. You see that beautiful boy with his hard cock. _See_ it, Mycroft. Think about how it would feel to have that waiting for you, not some pretty girl with her pussy all wet. Everybody is expecting you to touch him—stroke him—suck him. They expect you to get him on his knees, lube his tight asshole, and shove your cock inside until you come. Father’s waiting downstairs. He _wants_ you to do it. How do you feel now? _Are you enjoying yourself?”_

Mycroft stares up in shock. Not at Sherrinford’s anger, though it’s awful enough. With all the power of a born storyteller, his brother has made him see. Mycroft smells the roses, he feels the carpeting under his feet. He sees that beautiful boy, hears the soft words beckoning. He sees a bulge under silk boxers. He can taste it, the bile rising in his throat at the sight of that alien body. The one he’s supposed to touch, taste, fuck. He feels it, the shame at his revulsion. The sinking feeling that he’s the one who’s wrong—to his very core. Why is he wrong? Who decided _that?_

Perhaps other people wouldn’t have reacted so strongly to Sherrinford’s story. But Mycroft can’t help it. Their connection has frayed and twisted over the years, but it’s never broken. Mycroft feels what his brother feels. All of Sherrinford’s pain and hate.

He can’t bear it. He stands, pushing him away and running for the door. Sherrinford seizes his wrist. Mycroft tries to pull back but Sherrinford pushes him into the wall. After the training he’s had, Mycroft should be able to escape. He has three stone on Sherrinford, easily. But his brother has surprising strength. His eyes are huge, dilated again, not with drugs but with sheer rage.

“What’s wrong with me?” he hisses _. “What’s wrong?_ Remember my story, Mikey. Next time you want to strangle me, put yourself back in that room. Then you can explain to Sherlock why I’m so fucked up. But guess what? He knows. That’s why _he’s_ fucked up. He knows what our father is. You’re the only one who doesn’t, and it makes you the most fucked up of all.”

Sherrinford lets go with a shove. He turns away, a hand pressed to his stomach, his body bent like he’s going to be sick. His last words come in a tortured whisper.

“Go,” he says. “Get the fuck out. Before I forget you’re my brother, and I fucking kill you.”

 Mycroft gets out.


	60. Chapter 60

** Mycroft, cont. **

_July 1987_

Sherlock sits on the front steps until twilight, waiting for their brother to return. Then Mycroft makes him come in the house. Sherlock resists, but it’s not difficult to subdue a seven-year-old.

Mycroft takes Sherlock upstairs. He gets him into his pajamas and tucks him in bed. Sherlock is sobbing now, but Mycroft sits quietly. If you wait, he will wear himself out.

Not tonight. The noise goes on and on. Mycroft speaks to Sherlock soothingly. He reasons and pleads, to no avail. Sobs become screams. Wordless howls, like an animal caught in a trap.

When Mycroft feels the shadow fall upon them, he leans over his brother, instinctively shielding him. But their father is calm. Siger twitches his head, and Mycroft moves out of the way. Siger sits on the bed and seizes his squirming child by the shoulders.

“Stop this at once.”

Sherlock stares up at his father. The screams cut off as soon as Siger touched him, but the boy can’t seem to stop the tears streaming from his eyes. His chest hitches up and down.

Siger reaches into his trouser pocket. He brings out a bottle and opens it. He shakes out a tiny white pill and puts it into Sherlock’s palm. “Take this.”

“Wh-what is—”

“Take. It.”  
  
Sherlock swallows the pill dry, grimacing as he gets it down.

“Let’s have no more nonsense,” Siger says.

“F-Father,” Sherlock begins, “I’m sorry—”

But Siger is already leaving. He beckons at Mycroft to follow.

“Valium,” he says, as they stand in the hall. “Stay with him for the next hour. I only gave him two milligrams, but he’s small for his age. If there’s any sort of problem, call Jools Siviter.”  
  
“Are you going out, sir?”

“I’m going to the Robinsons’. This has gone on long enough.”  
  
Sherrinford ended his romantic relationship with Felicity Robinson two years ago. Being Sherrinford, he was able to charm the girl into remaining friends. Most afternoons he can be found at Felicity’s. It’s an easy walk from Chapel Street to her home in the Wilton Crescent.

“Are you sure he’s there?” Mycroft says.

“Where else could he be?”

There are many answers to this question, but Mycroft thinks it wise to be silent. His father will have questions enough for him, once the business of finding Sherrinford is concluded. Mycroft has no desire to begin that conversation early.

Siger walks down the hall. Mycroft watches until his father reaches the stairs to the main floor. Then he opens the door to Sherlock’s room.

He stands uncertainly in the doorway. Normally he just sits by Sherlock’s bed until his brother falls asleep, but tonight Mycroft feels something needs to be said. He has no idea what to say.

“Would you like me to read to you?” This is Sherrinford’s task, one of the few he performs assiduously. But he isn’t here.  
  
Sherlock blinks, which Mycroft takes for assent. He goes to the desk and picks up Lewis Carroll.

“Are you going to do the voices? Sherrinford does them.”  
  
“Yes, I’ll do a voice. This voice. Pay attention.”

Alice has just begun the Caucus-race when Sherlock’s eyelashes begin to flutter. By the time the White Rabbit is mistaking her for the parlormaid, Sherlock is asleep.

Mycroft watches over him for another half hour, but Sherlock’s breathing is normal. Mycroft rises, closing the book. His hand is on the doorknob when his brother’s voice comes, very softly.

“Why was Father screaming at Sherrinford and Bijan? What did they do?”  
  
Mycroft’s fingers tighten on the knob. “They shouldn’t have been on the roof. It’s—dangerous.”

“Is Sherrinford going to be punished?”  
  
“There will be consequences, yes. But you shouldn’t worry about it.”  
  
“You should help him.”  
  
“Sherlock, go to sleep.”

He sits straight up. “You have to. Father hates him.”

 _“Go to sleep,”_ Mycroft walks to the bed and pushes Sherlock back down. Sherlock goes readily enough. The Valium is taking effect. He yawns, and Mycroft pulls up the covers and tucks them in tight. Soon Sherlock is breathing steadily.

Mycroft looks down at his small brother. Rosy with sleep, his dark hair curling around his face. Hard to believe this is the same wild creature who was screaming himself sick an hour ago.

_Why do you scream, Sherlock? What do you see?_

“What?” he whispers.

The word is so soft, Sherlock shouldn’t have heard. But his eyes open. Eyes like no seven-year-old should have, ageless and accusing.

“You don’t hate Sherrinford. You pretend to, but you don’t.”

Mycroft says nothing.

“He isn’t coming back.”

“Father will find him.”  
  
 _“No.”_ Sherlock clutches Mycroft’s sleeve. “Don’t let that happen.”  
  
Mycroft plucks away Sherlock’s fingers. “Sleep. You’ll feel better tomorrow.”

He is in the hallway, the door nearly shut, when he hears his brother’s voice. Heavy with Valium but clear as a bell.

“Tomorrow is too late.”

Mycroft pauses a moment, then continues down the hall. He enters his own room with a feeling of relief. It’s pleasant and quiet in here. Blissful solitude, just him and the mermaids.

He sits at his desk. The application to Oxford isn’t due for weeks, but there’s no point putting it off. His personal statement is giving him some trouble. He dislikes talking about himself, and this essay seems particularly pointless. Some member of his family has been attending Oxford since 1547. Is it really necessary to write 750 words about his enthusiasm and commitment?

Mycroft has a copy of Sherrinford’s statement from last year. It’s touching, eloquent, and utterly unique. When you read it you can hear the author’s voice, and he’s someone you want to know. Sherrinford wrote it in 20 minutes while watching an episode of _Blackadder_.

If Sherrinford had behaved sensibly, if he’d gone to Felicity’s as usual, none of this would have happened. No one told him to meet Bijan Patel on the roof in broad daylight. They should have kept their activities in the dark, as they had for years.

Siger, making an unexpected trip home at lunch, saw moving figures on his rooftop and went to investigate. Mycroft, in his room wrestling with the essay, didn’t know what was going on until he heard pounding feet down the back stairs. Bijan Patel, running like the Devil was after him.

Mycroft glanced out the window, saw the Bentley, and dashed for the fourth floor. He yanked down the stairs to the roof, climbed up, and saw them by the roof’s edge. Sherrinford was pale and trembling, and Siger was—Mycroft got between them as quickly as he could.

_Father, please—_

_Do you know what he was doing up here? He and the paki boy?_  
  
 _It was a mistake! Just a momentary weakness. Tell him, Sherrinford!_

But Sherrinford was already gone, running faster than Bijan. Soon enough, he burst out the front door and was racing down the street.

Siger turned his full attention on Mycroft. _How long have you known about this?_  
  
Mycroft wanted to answer. But when he opened his mouth, no words came out.

Siger turned his back on him and left the roof.

That was ten hours ago. Sherrinford could be anywhere in London by now. Wherever he is and whatever he’s doing, Mycroft hopes that cocaine isn’t involved. His brother’s normal arrogance reaches megalomaniacal proportions on the stuff. If Siger were to find him in such a state—

There will be consequences. Perhaps Siger won’t let Sherrinford go to Oxford this autumn. A year shuttling papers around Whitehall might do him good. The matter won’t go further. Siger wouldn’t—not if Sherrinford apologizes and behaves more discreetly. Their father isn’t vicious.

Mycroft is startled from his ruminations by the sound of a car pulling up outside. He goes to the window and sees his father emerge from the Bentley. Siger is alone. Even in the weak light of the streetlamp, his expression can be read. It’s thunderous.

Mycroft sinks into his chair. He looks over at his favorite mermaid, but she has no advice.

He looks at the only thing on his desk not school-related. A trinket he acquired years ago and has kept in his possession, God knows why. It’s been a long time since he’s done more than glance at it. Now he picks it up, the cheap plastic oily under his fingers.

He feels silly, but Mycroft shakes the 8-ball anyway.

“Should I go downstairs?”

He peers at its cloudy window. _Reply hazy try again_

He gives it another shake. “Is it really my place to interfere?”

_Concentrate and ask again_

Mycroft concentrates, shakes. “Father would never—are things as bad as that?”

_Better not tell you now_

He jerks open the desk drawer and drops the 8-ball inside. Then he stands and exits the room.

In the hall he hesitates, looking towards the stairs. He opens the door of Sherrinford’s room instead. Once inside, he goes to the bedside table and turns on the lamp. He sits in the desk chair, surveying his surroundings.

The room’s layout is a mirror-image of his own, but they are not alike. No Waterhouses here, just layers of posters screaming at you: nightclubs, films, modern art, pop music. Looking at these walls is like looking at the inside of Sherrinford’s head. It’s not a peaceful place.  

Sherrinford’s clothes are in the closet, his books and cassettes are on the shelf. His Walkman is on the bed, next to the book he was reading last. Uncle Evie’s dressing gown is thrown casually over the bedpillows. The room looks as if he’ll return any time.

_He’s not coming back_

Mycroft blinks the words away. He gets up and goes to the bed. He picks up the Walkman, puts on the headphones and presses PLAY.

_Go on go on just walk away_  
 _Go on go on your choice is made_  
 _Go on go on and disappear_  
 _Go on go on away from here_

Mycroft takes off the headphones. Robert Smith’s voice has always irritated him.

He sits on the bed and picks up the book by the Walkman: _The Stories of Willa Cather._ It was left open and facedown, heedless of the damage to the spine. Sherrinford is so careless! He even marked the passages he liked in ink. Mycroft’s eye is caught by one.

_Paul never went up Cordelia Street without a shudder of loathing. He approached it tonight with the nerveless sense of defeat, the hopeless feeling of sinking back into ugliness and commonness that he always had when he came home. The moment he turned into Cordelia Street he felt the waters close above his head. After each of these orgies of living, he experienced all the physical depression which follows a debauch; . . . a shuddering repulsion for the flavorless, colorless mass of everyday existence; a morbid desire for cool things and soft lights and fresh flowers._

Mycroft shuts the book. “Paul’s Case” is not his favorite story. Who could sympathize with a protagonist who’s a liar, a thief, and then a suicide?

Mycroft puts the book and the Walkman on the bedside table. He looks around the room again. Sherrinford spends too much time here. Lying around in that damn dressing gown, headphones on his ears, nose in a book. It’s not healthy. When Father finds him, he’ll make him do better.

_Father hates him_

Mycroft leans forward, hands clenched. How could Father hate Sherrinford? He doesn’t know him. Not since their confrontation two years ago. It has astonished Mycroft, what a gifted liar his brother is. How well he’s played the good son. Sherrinford’s sexual conquests were the flaw in his deception, but even they were conducted discreetly until yesterday. He goes to Oxford in two months. He was almost free. Why ruin everything for a tumble with the gardener’s boy?

Not that he’s ruined. There will be consequences, but reasonable ones.

_He wants to have me institutionalized.   Do you understand? They’re going to give me electric shocks. Shoot me up with monkey glands and God knows what else._

Mycroft can see his brother, red-eyed and sweating, a new bruise on his cheek. Sherrinford was so devastated after the outing with Siger. It didn’t have to happen. If Mycroft had lied, and told Siger that Sherrinford was sleeping with Felicity, he would have been believed. But Sherrinford was so horrible to him that summer. He’s always horrible. When the time came, Mycroft didn’t lie. He didn’t protect his brother, though he knew there would be consequences.

_He threatened to commit me because I couldn’t fuck a woman. What will he do now, Mikey?   How many shocks for every blowjob on the roof? How many injections?_

Mycroft hears Sherrinford as if he were sitting next to him. What were his actual last words? Standing in the kitchen this morning, glaring. _Stay out of my Weetabix, you fat fuck._

The words weren’t kind. Sherrinford hasn’t been kind in a long time. Mycroft can remember a hundred cruelties, a thousand insults. Sherrinford doesn’t deserve loyalty. What does he deserve?

_You don’t hate him_

Mycroft hears the piano begin downstairs. When discomposed, Siger always favors Beethoven. This is Sonata No. 29, first movement.

Mycroft sits still for a few minutes, listening. Number 29, _Hammerklavier_ , is the best of the composer’s late works. Its third movement is the most famous, and rightly so. _Adagio_ in F-sharp minor, unfolding with an almost unbearable pain and regret. But in the midst of agony, there is relief. One brief, heavenly progression towards G major. A single ray of hope.

When the third movement begins, Mycroft goes downstairs.

The lounge’s only illumination comes from the open office door at the far end. But he knows this room so well, he could navigate it blindfolded. He knows the content of each picture, all his ancestors looking down with benevolence. The room has changed very little in 70 years, since Grandmother Edith bought the new sofa and chairs. Why should it change?

Violet wanted to do the room over once. She had catalogs and books of fabric samples. He can remember, though he must have been quite small at the time. He remembers sitting on the sofa next to her, looking at all the samples. His fingers on the pages, damasks and tweeds alternately silky and nubby under his fingers. He remembers sunlight coming through the window, making auburn lights in her dark hair. He smells her perfume: Joy.

He blinks away the memory. A pointless recollection, probably false. The room never changed.

Mycroft stands in the door of his father’s office, watching him play.

Siger Holmes is an accomplished musician. His timing is flawless, as steady as a metronome but never mechanical. His grasp of dynamics is astonishing; under his hands the Broadwood upright sings. Loudly at first, then softly, then softer still— _fortissimo, piano, pianissimo._ He is perfectly balanced, arm and ear devoted to each note, if only for the second of its sounding.

But his true genius lies in a certain ineffable quality of his playing. He finds the music not just within notes, but between them. Revealing not only the mysteries of sound, but of silence. The result is music so sweet, so painful, as to seem almost alive.

Mycroft is proficient, but not like this. His father has told him that his technique will develop as he matures. No doubt he’s right. In time, Mycroft will grow more skilled with silence.

He sighs, leaning his head against the doorframe. He doesn’t dare enter. Though he spends a great deal of time here, practicing music or listening to his father’s, he doesn’t feel confident in his welcome tonight. He remembers Siger turning his back on the roof.

Mycroft’s presence has been noted. Still, Siger keeps playing. This is no particular slight: He doesn’t desert Beethoven for anyone. The Prime Minister could be waiting, and Siger would finish the movement. (Perhaps the Queen would merit a pause. Perhaps.)    

Mycroft waits for the entire quarter-hour it takes his father to finish. When the last notes have died away, Siger sits still, hands on the keys. His breathing is audibly labored, but his seamed cheeks have color in them. He appears content, as if some inner hunger has been sated.

Then his expression cools. He turns his gaze upon Mycroft. “What is it, lad?”

That last word is a good sign. Had it been _boy_ , Mycroft would be worried. Still, he does not assume he’s pardoned. “Forgive the intrusion, sir. I wanted to know if there was any news.”

Siger says nothing. Instead, he gets up from the piano. He goes to the liquor cabinet and takes out the whiskey decanter and two low glasses. He puts the glasses on the desk and pours three fingers of liquor into each. He takes one glass for himself and pushes the other forward. “Sit.”

Mycroft sits at once. His father hates craning his neck to look at anyone. The red leather chair is as comfortable as Siger’s own, but Mycroft is not comfortable. He wishes Siger hadn’t offered the whiskey. Not because Mycroft doesn’t like it, but because he knows what it means.

Siger is a master interrogator. He’s shared some of his wisdom with Mycroft. The giving of food or drink to a subject is a basic gambit, designed to put him at ease. It also establishes dominance. You don’t ask if your subject wants anything, you just provide. You control the resources, and he takes what you give. It puts you in a fatherly relationship with the subject, but a stern father.

He _is_ Mycroft’s father. He knows Mycroft knows the gambit. Siger is sending a message. Of Mycroft’s current position, and what is expected of him. _Tell me what I want to know, boy._

Mycroft takes a drink before Siger can tell him to do it. This signals a certain acquiescence without implying total capitulation.

The whiskey is excellent, like all of Siger’s libations. Mycroft is glad of the liquid courage warming his belly. The offer of whiskey has an element of kindness to it, even as it seeks to admonish and control. A many-layered gesture, like most of Siger’s.

“Your brother has left the country,” Siger says.

Mycroft stops mid-drink, staring at his father. Siger’s eyes crinkle: He’s pleased at the reaction.

“You had no idea.”  
  
“No, sir. How could he accomplish such a thing?”

“He left a suitcase with Felicity Robinson. It contained clothes and a rather substantial amount of cash. Now we know where his mother’s birthday and Christmas checks have gone. Also, it contained his passport, still in his possession from the school trip to Paris last term. He even has a student visa valid in the United States. I wasn’t aware he had applied for one.” Siger frowns, and Mycroft knows that someone in the Home Office is going to be very sorry, very soon.

“But he’s a minor. For two more weeks, at least. Who co-signed the visa application?”  
  
“He forged my signature.”

“I see.”  
  
“That’s an indictable offense. It seems I’ve been ignorant of many of my son’s transgressions.”

Mycroft takes a big swallow of whiskey. The glass is almost empty, and he wishes he had more. But he won’t ask for it. There would be no recovering from such a show of weakness.

Siger takes a drink of his own. Then he reaches for the ornate oaken box on his desk, opens it, and takes out a cigarette. He lights it with the silver standing lighter. He sits back in the chair.

“Sherrinford has applied, and been accepted, to the University of California at Los Angeles. Also, the University of Southern California and New York University. Felicity Robinson helped him. She sent the applications and visa forms to Eton, he completed them and returned them to her for posting. They’ve corresponded for years; the envelopes appeared unremarkable.”

Mycroft digests the news that Siger has had Sherrinford’s post watched. For how long? What about his own correspondence? But then, Mycroft only writes to his father and Sherlock.

“I was unaware that Sherrinford had any such plans,” Mycroft says. “They seem—illogical. If he’s set on America, why not Harvard or Princeton?”

“Harvard and Princeton don’t have film programs. He clings to this ridiculous idea of being a director. Felicity Robinson was quite proud: The girl is in love with him. _Still.”_ Siger exudes a cloud of contemptuous smoke _._ “Sherrinford’s powers of persuasion astonish me.”

Mycroft raises his chin. “As far as I knew, he was attending Oxford. He did not confide in me.”

“Yet he did confide about the Patel boy.”

“That was not a confidence. I’m in a better position to note his movements than anyone else.”

“You kept the secret. Why? You and Sherrinford aren’t close. I know you have no particular regard for the gardener’s son.”

No, Mycroft doesn’t approve of him. All of Bijan’s evenings on the roof with Sherrinford: Even before they started having sex, it was inappropriate. Mycroft remembers the two of them walking down the third floor hall, headed to the roof. Sherrinford’s arm slung around Bijan’s shoulders.

Mycroft is not fond of Bijan. But he wants to clarify that the boy was not the aggressor in that relationship. Sherrinford has never said, but Mycroft knows. He knows his father. Siger can’t think his son was seduced. The consequences for Bijan and his family would be—unpleasant.  

While Mycroft considers, Siger waits. Calmly smoking, content to wait all night if he must.

“I thought it would end. Sherrinford never seemed very committed. He was amusing himself.”  
  
“He had others, then?”  
  
Oh bloody hell. Mycroft wants to obfuscate: _Not certain, don’t think so, not to my knowledge._ But he knows if he qualifies his response, Siger will see the lie. Siger can’t know about the boys in Sherrinford’s bedroom. If he knew Sherrinford had brought them here, to this house—

Mycroft has paused too long. Siger leans forward, eyes glittering. “How many? For how long?”  
  
“I’m afraid I don’t—”

“I don’t need _exact numbers,”_ Siger snaps. “An estimate will suffice.”

Mycroft says nothing. Siger has pushed too hard, too early. He was doing much better before, balancing intimidation with parental concern. Now he just sounds mean. He knows better: Why the lapse in technique? He’s too close to the subject. It’s better to have an interrogator who isn’t personally involved. Siger should have called Jools Siviter.

They are silent. Siger smokes and waits. Calmer now, seemingly at ease, though his breathing is labored. Too many nights of smoking and waiting.

Then he leans forward, pouring more whiskey into Mycroft’s glass.

“You have to understand, lad. Your brother needs help. He isn’t well.”

Siger sighs, turning his head to the photograph hung over the globe in the corner. It depicts two men in old-fashioned hunting gear, a freshly killed stag between them. One of the men would be recognized by anyone: Winston Churchill, glowering triumphantly. The other man is Mycroft’s Grandfather Thomas. A handsome man, though already middle-aged when the picture was taken.

“I thought your brother would make a politician,” Siger says. “Like my father. Sherrinford resembles him. The same ability to ingratiate.”

To hear Granny Hettie tell it, her husband ingratiated half the ladies at Court.

“Sherrinford could be Prime Minister still,” Siger says. “If he controls himself.”

“I think he’s beyond anyone’s control now.”  
  
Siger looks amused. “I’ll know his flight information within an hour—my people are checking. Wherever his plane lands, it will be met.”

Mycroft picks up his glass and takes a drink. The whiskey is making him a little light-headed. Or perhaps that’s the pounding of his heart. “What will happen to him?”

“He will be helped,” Siger says. “But you must help _me_ , Mycroft. I need to know just how advanced your brother’s condition is. So I can give him the care he needs.”

Now, that was well done. The repeated application of whiskey, the mention of a shared family history. The tone in the voice, mournful but not without hope. F-sharp minor shading to G.

It would work very well, if Mycroft had not been trained. Perhaps Siger should not have begun quite so early. But he has always taken particular notice of Mycroft, more than his own father ever took of him. Siger and Thomas hated each other, their personalities so antipathetical that understanding was impossible. (Granny Hettie after four sherries: what a font of information!)

Though perhaps Mycroft’s training did not begin early enough. He remembers a snowy January night six years ago. He was lying down when his father opened the bedroom door. Siger had a glass of Ribena in his hand. _Something to settle your stomach, lad_. Mycroft sat up, his face red. Humiliated over his loss of control at supper. Vomit all over the linen tablecloth. His mother bending near to help, him screaming. _Don’t touch me. Don’t you ever touch me again._

As Mycroft drank the cordial, Siger sat beside him on the bed. Mycroft remembers the sound of his father’s voice. It was like hearing lovely music, drowning out the chaos of his own thoughts. Siger talked calmly and reasonably. Then Mycroft talked. He told Siger everything.

In the morning, Mother was gone.

Mycroft doesn’t blame Siger for what happened. He’s not the one who betrayed. He’s the one who stayed and cleaned up Violet’s mess. Mycroft doesn’t hate his father. He understands him.

Which is why he understands what he has to do. Mycroft meets his father’s gaze calmly. He clasps his hands in his lap to hide their trembling.

“Very well,” he says. “I’ll tell you.”  
  
Siger nods encouragingly, taking another drag on his cigarette.

“Here’s what I know. Sherrinford desires men. He’s always desired them, as far back as I can recall. From the first time we saw _Star Wars_ , at least. He conducted a sexual affair with Bijan Patel for the past two years. During that same time, he also carried on with any number of boys he met in nightclubs. His conduct at Eton was more circumspect, though I have my suspicions about him and his tutor. It would explain his poor showing in Calculus. He had sex with them all, orally and anally, frequently and enthusiastically, in bedrooms, backrooms, and alleys—”

“What _is_ your point, Mycroft?”  
  
“This is not an illness. He did not catch sodomy at Eton or from Bijan Patel. Sherrinford is a homosexual, and that cannot be cured. You could as soon change the color of his eyes or his left-handedness. Any treatment he was subjected to would not cure him. It would ruin him.”

Siger says nothing. He just looks at Mycroft with an unreadable expression. Mycroft presses on. His heart is racing, and he desperately wants that last shot of whiskey. But he can’t stop now.

“I understand your exasperation. Sherrinford lied to you for years. But bringing him back will not accomplish your goal of seeing him Prime Minister. He will never be that. Hospitalizing him will not accomplish anything. Except vengeance.”  
  
 _I know you want that,_ Mycroft thinks. _Because he fooled you, just like Violet did. Because you hate him. Not because the two of you are different. He ingratiates like Thomas, but underneath that is you. Your arrogance, your ruthlessness. You’re so alike, neither of you can stand it. But he doesn’t have your patience. I have that. I’ll sit here all night if I must. Until you see reason._

Siger stubs out his cigarette in the crystal ashtray. His face is so calm that Mycroft knows he’s thinking furiously. Parsing every phrase, analyzing every syllable. Drilling through layers of meaning to the core of the matter, the silence at the center of it all. A truth that can never be spoken, but must be understood:

_If you put him in that hospital, you’ll kill him. Perhaps not physically, but in every other way that matters. Sherrinford Holmes will not exist anymore. Part of you wants that. Your hatred runs deep. But an even deeper part of you does not want it. Because he’s your son, Siger._

The silence spins out for a long, long time. Mycroft stays quite still, shoulders straight, hands in his lap. He stares so long that everything starts to blur, his father’s aged features and silver hair smearing into a greyish blob. Then the blob moves, and Mycroft blinks. Siger’s face snaps into focus again. He looks weary.

“I’m not a vindictive man,” he says.

“No,” Mycroft says. “Of course not.”

“Well, then. What do you propose?”

The question, calmly as it’s phrased, is really a plea. It’s also a challenge. The last one, Mycroft hopes: His head is aching. He wraps his fingers around the soft leather arms of the chair.

“Sherrinford lied,” he says. “He seduced the help, he forged your name. Also, I’m not sure all of that money came from Violet’s presents. I suggest you check the silver pantry. There must be consequences for these actions.” When Siger raises an eyebrow: “Let him go to America. I don’t think he understands what he’s taking on. But at such a distance, he can’t disgrace us.”  
  
“He has a way of drawing attention to himself.”  

It’s the closest Siger will come to admitting that Sherrinford might realize his dream. Mycroft, who doesn’t doubt his brother’s ambition for one moment, shrugs. “There are names other than Holmes. Let him choose one. He likes to call himself Ford, he can be Ford Huxley.”  
  
Siger’s mouth twists. “Vernet is more likely.”  
  
“Either way, he won’t be Sherrinford Holmes. His connection to our family will be erased.” Mycroft looks at his father steadily. “It will be as if he ceased to exist.”

Siger lights another cigarette. He takes a drag and exhales, staring at Mycroft. He does not look at him the way he would look at an interrogation subject. Not even how he normally looks at his favorite son. There is respect in his face. The kind you give an equal.   

“Very reasonable,” he says.

Mycroft feels something catch in his throat. Not because he knows that he’s earned his father’s respect and gratitude, perhaps forever. That’s pleasing, but it’s not what makes the back of his eyes start to prickle. It’s such a _relief_ , knowing your father isn’t going to kill your brother.

He finishes the last of the whiskey, which helps him to focus. When he speaks again, his voice is suitably calm. “Thank you. But—if you will excuse me, sir. It’s very late.” He’s afraid that if he stays longer, he might lose control. All the respect he’s earned, wasted in a moment.

Siger dismisses him with a wave of his cigarette. Mycroft rises. He moves carefully, finding the floor a bit unsteady under his feet. Whiskey and weariness.

Mycroft is already in the lounge when he hears his father’s voice again. Mycroft turns and sees Siger standing behind the desk. His silver hair is mussed. There are pouches under his eyes, and his shoulders are stooped. His labored breaths are audible. But his grey eyes are as keen as ever.

“I approve your plan,” he says. “I appreciate its logic. But I know logic is not what inspired it.” He gives Mycroft one of his penetrating glances. “Sherrinford doesn’t deserve your loyalty.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
“Why do you do these things for him?”

Mycroft is exhausted and a little drunk. Perhaps that’s why he doesn’t think through his reply. He just says it. “You had a sister once. What would you have done for her?”

Siger goes still. He’s always claimed that he doesn’t remember Harriet very well. She was far older than he was, and died young. But Mycroft listened to Granny Hettie’s story. How her son cried when his sister died. The boy screamed like an animal, and would not be comforted.

It takes Siger a moment to reply. “Harriet was a kind person,” he says. “Sherrinford is not.”  
  
“No,” Mycroft says. “But he’s my brother.”

The faintest, strangest smile crosses Siger’s face. “Go to bed, lad.”

Mycroft is at the stairs when he hears the piano begin again. _Hammerklavier_ , fourth movement. The _allegro_ is brutally difficult. Those devilish triplets! As he mounts the stairs, Mycroft can picture his father’s fingers flying over the keys. Pounding so hard, the old man soon grows out of breath. But when he’s done, he’ll light another cigarette. Siger should stop smoking, but he won’t. He had his first cigarette in 1943. The day of his sister’s funeral.

Mycroft makes his way down the third-floor hall. He goes into Sherlock’s room. His brother is asleep, turned on one side. Mycroft leans in, checking Sherlock’s breathing. Deep and steady. Mycroft doesn’t totally approve of Siger’s method of calming a child, but at least Sherlock will sleep through the night for once. Mycroft pushes damp curls away from that solemn little face.

Sherlock’s hair wants cutting. Mycroft makes a mental note to get it seen to: The lad should be presentable for the beginning of the school term. Though Mycroft isn’t sure about that school. Sherlock’s Latin should be coming along faster. Next year he’ll be eight, old enough to board. The Dragon School has an excellent Classics program, and it’s located in Oxford. Mycroft will be able to supervise Sherlock’s education more closely.

Mycroft didn’t board until Eton. Violet did not believe in sending young children away. She wanted to be there every day when her sons came home.

All things considered, boarding school would have been better.

Mycroft is going into his bedroom when he sees the light still burning in Sherrinford’s room next door. He goes inside to turn it off. As he walks to the desk, he catches movement in the corner of his eye. He turns and looks at the bed. “Hello, prodigal. Where have you been?”

This sally is met with withering silence.

“Mrs. Thompson saw a fox in the back garden yesterday morning.”  
  
 _This_ gets a response. Pointed ears turn up.

“Also, a pair of rather impudent squirrels. You should attend to it.”

The same pair of ears flattens warningly.

“Don’t take that attitude with me. I’m giving you vital intelligence.”

Walsingham yawns, rising and arching his back. Puffs of orange fur dot the fine old wool of Uncle Evie’s dressing gown. The cat begins to march in place, claws tearing at the fabric.

“You should find somewhere else to nap. Sherrinford is going to—”

Mycroft stops. Quickly, he sits down on the edge of the bed. His knees aren’t quite steady. He shouldn’t have had all that whiskey. He rubs at his temples, trying to clear his head.

_He isn’t coming back_

Mycroft looks up. His gaze finds the bookshelf. He sees stacks of _Cahiers du Cinéma_ next to a lovely first edition of _Brave New World_. A row of cheap paperbacks is next to that. The spines are too thin for the titles to be read, but Mycroft knows what they are. He’s read Violet Vernet. He must admit that she has a certain talent. Sherrinford’s gift for lying, he comes by it honestly.

How many nights did Sherrinford lie here, contemplating escape? Many. The plan was well-conceived: He came close to getting away clean. He probably meant to leave on his birthday. A fortnight shy of his goal, and he ruined everything for a tumble with the gardener’s boy. Maybe he loved him. Maybe he couldn’t stand it. All that beautiful, terrible freedom just days away.

In those last minutes on the roof, when he saw his ruination in his father’s face, did he think of another escape? An easier journey than going to America. One step, and let gravity do the rest.

He did not escape. A boy who looks like him will soon be in Los Angeles, or maybe New York. He’ll smile like Sherrinford, he’ll have his charm and his ruthlessness. But it won’t be him.

Sherrinford Holmes is dead. It wasn’t a suicide.

_I’m sorry. It was the only way. Oxford wasn’t far enough. Los Angeles wouldn’t have been. Father would never have let you go. He had such hopes for us! So did I, but they were simpler. That I would one day have my brother back. The one I lost six years ago. We both fucked it up, didn’t we? You haven’t been kind to me. I haven’t been loyal to you. Not really, not until tonight._

It washes over him then, a wave of such despair that he is made breathless by it. Mycroft hasn’t known pain like this in six years. That January when everything was ripped away. In the months afterward he ate everything in the house, trying to fill the void. It was never enough.

He curls on his brother’s bed, gasping and trembling. He wishes he could cry, but this pain goes deeper than tears. Like having something vital and visceral pulled right out of the middle of you. But you still feel it, you always feel it, pulling further and further away while you keep bleeding.

He wants to cry. He wants to claw and kick and scream like an animal. He can’t bear it.

 _Control yourself._ Think _, Mycroft._

He thinks. He breathes. He uses positive visualization, as he’s been trained. He pictures sticky toffee pudding with caramel sauce, a chocolate sponge with chocolate icing. Warm doughnuts oozing raspberry jam, fairy cakes bursting with buttercream. Iced buns, soft and gooey; treacle tarts, lovely and lemony. All the sweet things he craves.

He thinks of Elaine, and the way the firelight shone in her auburn hair. He thinks of the others he’s known in the last year. Brenda, Veronica, Alice, Daisy: those dewy girls in lingerie. Faces and bodies blur together in his mind, but he remembers how they felt under his hands. He recalls how nice their skin tasted. A different kind of sweetness, filling the same emptiness.

He concentrates. Until, little by little, he gets himself under control.

He gets to his feet and sees Walsingham. The cat is crouched down defensively, staring at him.

“Tell no one,” Mycroft rasps. “I know where you sleep.”

Walsingham gives a scornful flick of his tail, jumps off the bed and pads out of the room.  
  
Mycroft fumbles at the lamp, turning it off.   Stumbles through the darkness and down the hall, until he reaches his own room. He undresses quickly and puts on his pajamas. He puts out the light and gets into bed, staring at the ceiling.

He’s under control, but that’s not the same as being calm. His head is aching and his heart is still pounding. He will never sleep. There are biscuits in the desk, but he isn’t hungry. He considers masturbation, but he isn’t in the mood.

 _To center yourself, think of a happy memory,_ he remembers one of the training manuals saying. _Remember a time when you felt absolutely safe. Remember being with a person close to you: your spouse, if you have one. Or your mother and father, your brothers and sisters._

Violet, Siger, Sherlock. They won’t do. They make him feel many things, but not safe.

He closes his eyes and concentrates. Using all the training he knows, he tries to turn back time. It should be easy enough. He’s not going any distance. To this very room, not eight years ago.

There were other happy days. Other times when you felt safe. But this is the day you remember.

_“Happy Christmas, Mikey!”_

_You squint at your brother. He’s smiling at you. A smile so bright, you can see it in the dark. You feel him hugging you so tightly, you can’t breathe. He’s vain and bossy, even at ten years old. You don’t mind. You pretend to, but you don’t. He’s your favorite person in the world._

_You gave a nicer gift than he did. You don’t mind. He did think about you. He knows how you worry. About Mummy and the new baby, about the silence in the house. He got you something magic so you wouldn’t worry. He worries about you._

_He loves your gift. He says you can play with it whenever you like. You won’t, though. Even at nine years old, you know how he feels about Han. You don’t mind. It’s just who Sherry is: vain, bossy, left-handed. Painfully in love with Han Solo._

_He tells you not to worry. None of you is going anywhere. Though he’s a year older and will go to Eton first. You do mind that. You mind terribly. But it’s just a year. Then you’ll be together again. Always together, because those other boys are stupid. He knows it, too._

_No more talk then. Sherrinford has gone to sleep. He’s right next to you on the narrow bed. You fit so close, like peas in a pod. Sometimes, you don’t know where you end and he begins._

_You know he isn’t really here. You shouldn’t be able to feel him. He doesn’t really exist. Your favorite person, the one who hugged you and worried about you. He’s been gone a long time. But you still feel him. Go to sleep, Mikey. I’m right here next to you. Just for tonight._


	61. Chapter 61

** Neville, 11 January 2013 **

**Sorry, kiddo. Dinner’s off. Francis slipped on a squab. —FH**

**How the fuck do you do that?—NS**

**Dunno. He managed. Went down on one hand like f’ing Iron Man. Broken wrist. —FH**

**Ouch. —NS**

**Fran is such a klutz. Inbreeding, y’know. —FH**

**Posh? —NS**

**Cadogan —FH**

**As in EARL Cadogan? Shit. Technically, his granddad’s my landlord. —NS**

**You and half of London. Fran is the ba-ba-black sheep. With a sad cracked hoof. —FH**

**Come to my rented abode. We can think of something else to do. Sophie has gone home. Not a dolly in sight, promise. —NS**

**I believe you. But I’m wiped. Think I’ll stay in and order room service. —FH**

**OK. Tomorrow? --NS**

**Tomorrow I’ll be at 35,000 feet. –FH**

**? —NS**

**LA, baby. Can’t hang around forever. London in January, WTF was I thinking? –FH**

**I never know what you’re thinking. –NS**

**Mostly about how I’m going to fit all this crap in my suitcases. —FH**

**So. This is it? —NS**

**‘Fraid so. I’ll call you next time I’m in town. Or if you’re ever in CA . . . —FH**

**Sure. Goodbye, Ford. —NS**

**L8RS—FH**

I toss the phone on my desk.

Given a choice between seeing me or staring at the walls of his hotel room, Ford is choosing to stare. I think that says everything about our relationship.

He spent a quarter-hour in the cold today, enumerating all the reasons why it was imperative that I come to Oxfordshire for dinner. Eating squab with a table of posh intellectuals is not my ideal way to spend an evening, but I said yes.

I should have known better. Have I not seen _Alice?_ You don’t say yes to the Mad Hatter. He’ll offer you tea again and again, but he never lets you drink.

Tea. The situation calls for it. Gallons of it.

I shuffle to the kitchen and put the kettle on. I stand glumly waiting, mug in hand.

I can’t have a relationship with Ford. He’s quite mad. Also, made mostly of plastic.

But when I kissed him on Sunday, he didn’t feel plastic. His lips were silky-hot, and he gripped me so tightly I couldn’t breathe. Blissfully suffocated. Can a Ken doll kiss like that?

Plastic men don’t make movies that take your breath away. Ones that give you fevered dreams and frequent erections. The feelings in the films are real, and they belong to their creator.

Ford Huxley isn’t a mannequin. He’s a mask.

That’s what this has all been about, really. Sure, I want to shag Ford Huxley. Everyone does. But how many people want Sherrinford Holmes? Who even knows he exists?

It was Sherrinford, I suspect, who played dolls with Sophie on Sunday. I know he’s the one who kissed me in the snow. This morning at Baker Street, I saw him again. I watched him and his brother tear into each other in their own idioglossia, shouting family secrets nobody should hear. Afterwards, he looked so lonely, sitting on that icy bench. Less like a fabulous monster, more like a wounded boy. Who could say no to him, after seeing the painful truth?

Sherrinford is heartbroken. He’s also angry. Coldly enraged, by damage done long ago. His parents’ divorce and other things, ones that never made it into Violet Vernet’s novels. How it was to be a gay teenager, stuck inside that creeping crypt of a house, one shudders to think.

Mad, bad, and dangerous, Sherrinford Holmes. More dangerous than his brothers, because you don’t know he’s there. You glimpse the shadow but you don’t see the man, not until it’s too late. Ford seduces with an easy smile, but it’s Sherrinford who grabs you and won’t let go.

The thought of never seeing him again—never touching him—makes me want to scream. I can hear myself screaming, a piercing wail that drills into the ear like an ice pick—

Wait. That’s the kettle.

I take it off the stove and fill my mug to the top. I rip into two packets of Typhoo, the foil slick under my fingers, and dunk them in the mug. When the tea has gone as black as sin, I put in two teaspoons of sugar and a slosh of milk. Good strong builder’s tea, like my dad drinks.

I wish my dad were here now. Dear old Dad, with his checked shirts and friendly furrowed face. Not a charmer, really, but strong as English oak. He’s someone you can depend on. Mum, bless her, knew a good thing when she saw it. I’ve never found a man like that.

Well, I did once. But he was in love with someone else.

I’d like to call Dad and ask him over. Tell him the sink in the kitchen still isn’t working properly, which it isn’t. But that’s an excuse. I’d like to sit with him a while. I can’t talk about Ford, but just chatting about the weather would be a relief.

But Dad has the flu, so I’ll handle this like a motherfucking adult. I’ll drink my tea. Then I’ll go out, get drunk, and fuck a stranger.

I go over to the desk and flick the iPod stereo on. I find _Magical Mystery Tour_ , the same album Ford and I listened to on Sunday. I sit on the sofa with my tea, brooding as the music plays.

_You say yes, I say no_  
 _You say stop and I say go, go, go_  
 _You say goodbye and I say hello—hello—hello_  
 _I don't know why you say goodbye, I say hello_

I run my hand over the Chesterfield’s cushion. Like the leather commuted it somehow, I flash on the memory of Ford pushing me back on the sofa, his teeth in my neck. It’s so fucking real, the hard hot heat of him. I smell him, musk and lemons in my nostrils, making me dizzy.

When I was getting dressed an hour ago, I was so excited. I put on my good jumper, the one I’ve kept hidden from the cat. I don’t do dinner dates, as a rule. But I was going to go to Oxfordshire and make polite conversation with those owl-eyed academics. I was going to _try_ , goddammit.

I’m already dressed up. I can be at the bars in half an hour. But I’m exhausted at the thought of it, the colored lights and seething crowds, the overpriced drinks and pointless chat. I’m not even up for Grindr. In fact, the very idea of it makes my skin crawl. What the hell is wrong with me?

_So, Nev. How long have you been in love with Ford?_

I don’t know, John. I’ve never been in love before. Is this how it feels? Because this _sucks_.

I put the mug on the table. I put my face in my hands. I’m not going to cry. I’m going to stay like this, listening to my heart in my ears, until I calm down. Hearing it pound, louder and—

Wait. That’s the door.

 _Dear Jesus_ , I pray. _If I have any favors left after all of my wickedness, don’t let this be Angie. UPS, Stuart from the Disney Store, the bloody Grim Reaper. Just not Angie. Okay?_

I get up, straightening my jumper and running hands through my hair. I open the door.

“Oi, Paddington! You look fucking skinny.”

I’m enfolded in a bone-crushing hug. I pull back, gazing into a round, beaming face. Gutted as I am by this bitch of a day, I have to smile.

“Hey, Davy,” I say.

He’s not my Dad. But fuck me, my older brother is the next best thing. He even looks like Dad: a ruddy apple doll of a man, balding and plain. Nearly as short as me, with stumpier legs and a hard little builder’s belly. Not the beauty of the family, but he has other virtues.

“To what do I owe the pleasure, mate?” I ask.

“Dad said your kitchen sink is still knackered. He’s coughing his guts out, so I said I’d come. Would’ve called first, but I was already in the neighborhood. Just spent an hour explaining to Her Ladyship that the bloody roof _will_ fall on her head if I take down that bedroom wall.”  
  
“Which lady is that?”  
  
“Who cares? They all look the same in Grosvenor Square. Blinkered sheep in silk scarfs. I had to speak slowly and use words of no more than two syllables, but she finally got the point.”

David picks up his tool bag and comes into the flat. Somewhere, I have a few odd spanners that Dad gave me, but my brother is much better prepared. It’s what he does for a living. David is a contractor who specializes in period restoration. He’s efficient, experienced, and has a way with the council reps. There’s a waiting list for his services, and he doesn’t come cheap.

But I’m his brother, so he fixes my plumbing for free. “Thank God you’re here,” I say. “The pipes are leaking from under the sink. Sophie slipped the other day and busted her ass.”

“Well, she will stomp about. Like mother like daughter, eh?” he winks at me.

“Seen Angie lately?” I ask, as we head into the kitchen.

“Last weekend, for my sins. Nigel needed help finishing the brick barbecue. Rose and the kids came too—you know Susie and Sophie are thick as thieves. Angie made her turkey curry.”  
  
Nigel and David are friends. Not surprising, as they vibe in a similarly manly way. I’ve always hated family weekends: dried-out casseroles and DIY projects, drinking beer in the back garden while the kids run around in the dirt. If I never eat one of Angie’s curries again, it’ll be too soon. But sometimes, it feels like I’ve been replaced by a better, straighter model.

I lean on the breakfast bar, scrubbing at my hair until it feels like it’s standing straight out.

“What’s wrong with you?” David says, as he opens the cupboard below the sink.

“Nothing.”  
  
“Bollocks. You’ve got a face like a cat’s ass, and you’re dressed like Draco Malfoy.”

I look down at my green jumper and slim black trousers. “This is Burberry. It cost 500 quid.”

“Five hundred quid to look like a twat,” David says, his voice muffled by the cabinet.

I sigh, tugging self-consciously at my thin black Burberry necktie.

“No comeback? Fucking hell, Nev, call me a fat git or something.”

“Something,” I mutter.  
  
David emerges from under the sink, staring at me. “Shit. You _are_ depressed.”  When I shrug: “Come on. What’s wrong, Paddington?”  
  
Love one bloody teddy when you’re four, and they never let you forget. “Don’t call me that.”

“It’s this Holmes business again, isn’t it? I told you to stay away from that nutter.”  
  
“I haven’t seen Sherlock in days.”  
  
“What about John Watson?”   David scowls. Once upon a time, he liked the man. He had hopes for us, visions of family weekends with John wielding a hammer and eating Rose’s Irish stew. David’s views changed when the anti-Moriarty campaign kicked into gear. David doesn’t care what the red tops say about John, but he does care what they say about me. It hasn’t been pretty.

“This has nothing to do with John.”  

“This crap that’s all over the telly, Moriarty or Richard Brook or whatever the fuck his name is, back again.   What does it mean for you? If you’re in danger—”

“Moriarty doesn’t know who the fuck I am.”

David narrows his eyes a little more. He opens his lips. Then he closes them and jerks his head at the tools clustered around the sink. “Get down here. Hold this gasket.”

It doesn’t take us long to fix the sink. Well, David fixes it, and I hold various widgets I can’t put a name to. It’s pathetic, really. I’m the son and grandson of builders, and I can’t tell a handsaw from a hawk. Dad tried to teach me, but after many domestic cock-ups and one terrible week on a worksite when I was 14, I was banished from the trade. I don’t miss it.

David has put the kettle back on. Soon enough the warm water is back to boiling. He fixes us a cuppa, my first having gone cold on the sofa table. We are silent a few minutes, listening to the stereo, which has moved on to the next album on the playlist. I dunk my tea bags in time to the beat of “With a Little Help from My Friends.”

“Why did they ever let Ringo sing?”   David says.  
  
“He sounds better when you’re tripping on acid.”

“Is this personal testimony?”  
  
“First year at uni. Spent 12 hours sitting on a beanbag, listening to _Sgt. Pepper_ and moaning.   Thought the floor was lava: Ringo’s voice was the least of my troubles. You know the story.”

“Nope. We didn’t talk much that year. Kosovo and all.”  
  
David spent eight years in the army. While I was freaking out to the Beatles and trying not to jerk off to Keanu in the _Matrix_ , David was clearing landmines in Gjakova. His best friend was blown to bits twenty feet away from him. You won’t hear him whinging, though. He certainly wouldn’t be in tears because some bloke was messing his head about. If my brother David were gay, he’d be the butchest poufter you ever saw. I grimace and dunk my tea bags some more.

“Man troubles, is it?”  
  
I jerk my head up from my cup, blinking at him. Though I shouldn’t be shocked. David is sharp as a tack, and he’s been dealing with my shenanigans for a long time.

“Look, you’ve got to get over John Watson. I know it must have been hard seeing him marry someone else, but they deserve each other, if you ask—”

“What?” I shake my head. “I don’t care about that. John is my friend.”  
  
David looks skeptical. “That’s why you’ve risked your professional reputation these last three months—for a _friend._ Didn’t you shag him once?”  
  
“Christ, about a thousand years ago! Who cares?”

“He’s using you, you know. Letting you run his blog and take everybody’s shit, while he and Sherlock hole up in their love nest. Which has structural issues, by the way. Have you noticed the cracks in the foundation? I hope 221-bloody-B comes down around their ears—”

“David. Stop. I am not in love with John.”  
  
He shakes his head. “I’m not judging, all right? But you look like hell, Paddington. Even in that overpriced prefect’s kit. You’re pale as milk and a puff of wind would blow you away. If it’s not John, it’s something. I haven’t seen you look like this in five fucking years.”

It was David’s house I went to, the night Angie kicked me out. Three in the morning, freezing cold, and I was so blinded by tears I was tripping over my own feet. If my brother hadn’t been there, I’d have pitched myself in front of the nearest speeding vehicle.  

David worries about me a lot, but he has never judged me. Not even that terrible night five years ago, when I sat in his kitchen and told him how badly I’d fucked up my life.

_I’m a liar, and a cheat, and a horrible fucking person—_

_Hush. You’re not horrible. You’re just confused._

_I’m_ gay _._

_I know. Why do you think I told you not to get married?_

_Because you think Angie’s a bitch._

_Yeah, but mostly it’s because you like boys. Worked that one out a while ago._

_Do—do you mind, Davy?_

_You’re my brother. Nothing will change that. If you murder a bloke, I’ll help you hide the body. It’s what brothers do, Nev._

I set down my tea mug. I look into my brother’s very blue eyes. His best feature, and the only one we share. I’m the pretty one, for all the good it’s done me.

“I’m in love with someone,” I say softly. “Not John. Somebody else. It’s fucking killing me.”

I tell him everything. Twelve years of watching Ford Huxley from afar, and then a week’s worth of awkward, confusing encounters with the man himself. I even tell David about the interrupted blowjob, and he smiles a bit at that. But by the time I’m done, he’s back to looking worried.

“Fucking poshos,” he spits. “They’re all insane.”  
  
“Not helpful, Davy.”

“What do you want me to say? You say you’re not in love with John, and good for you. But you are in love with Sherlock Holmes’ brother, who is Ford Huxley, and yes, I know that you like his films, you made me watch _The Secret History_ three fucking times. But who knew that you were harboring a secret obsession? Now, through a chain of coincidence that sounds like something off _Doctor Who_ , you’ve met the man. Like every other gay bloke on the planet, Huxley took a fancy to you. But your big night turned into a playdate with Sophie, and Huxley decided that he wasn’t interested. Or maybe he was, because today he asked you to dinner. But then somebody slipped on a squab, and Huxley changed his mind again. Now he’s told you to sod off for good.”

David takes a swallow of tea and wipes his lips. “Fuck me. If this is your idea of a boyfriend, I wish you’d go back to being a slut.”

“Ford isn’t my boyfriend.”  
  
 _“Well, he’s not some git from Grindr, is he?”_ David snaps. “You left him alone with Sophie. Which I could ring your scrawny neck over.”  
  
“Sophie loves Ford!”

“Great. She’s inherited your terrible taste in men.”

“You said you wouldn’t judge me. You’re supposed to help.” I cross my arms over my chest. “I suppose you’re going to tell me to stay away from Ford.”

“What good would that do? The sodding universe has been telling you to renounce Huxley and all his works. For 12 years, it’s told you. But you’re a stubborn little shit, aren’t you? Tell me, after he threatened to sue, how long was it before you watched one of his movies? A week?”

Two weeks, actually. That wasn’t my fault. I was home with the flu and ITV was showing _Kim._       
  
“You want my advice?   Here it is.” David starts counting on his fingers. “One: Go to Huxley’s hotel. Two: Shag him blind. Three: Shut the fuck up.”  
  
 _“What?”_  
  
“You’ve been obsessed with him since you were 20. _Brave New World_ made you fuck Charlie, which made you marry Angie, which means that Huxley is the indirect cause of your disastrous marriage, and that’s so fucked up I can’t even discuss it. That, and the copyright infringement nonsense, and his shitty behavior now, should have you running in the other direction. Instead you’re pining. If you don’t fuck him before he leaves, you’ll never get over this. Someday I’ll find you right here, surrounded by magazine clippings of Huxley and jars of your own urine.”

“Oh, please—”

David holds up a quelling hand. “He’s just a man, Nev. Sure, he’s rich and famous, and he’s a Holmes, which means he’s a weirdo. But he’s human. He’s probably not even a very good lay:  Public school types usually aren’t. Find out, then come home and get on with your life. Find a nice teacher or a veterinarian to settle down with, somebody real. In fact, there’s this bloke I’ve been working with at Her Ladyship’s place, an interior designer, looks a bit like Paul Bettany—”

“I’m not getting fixed up. I’m _not_ going to see Ford. You can’t seriously—”

I stop as David, moving with speed and deliberation, goes to the desk and picks up my phone. It’s screenlocked, but I gave him the password ages ago. He types it in and starts scrolling.  
  
“What are you doing?”  
  
“Looking at your saved numbers.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“Here he is! Ford Huxley, 310-555-2120. Wonder how much I’d get if I sold this to the tabs?”

I run across the room and snatch the phone. “Don’t fuck around. You wouldn’t do that.”  
  
“Of course not. But here’s what I will do.   If you don’t go to his hotel right now, I’m going to call him and tell him the _Brave New World_ story. You, Charlie, Angie, the whole dirty secret.”  
  
I picture Ford’s reaction if he knew what a sad stalker fanboy I really am. How he would look. What he would _say._ My heart starts racing so fast it’s hard to speak. “You—you wouldn’t.”  
  
“Look into my eyes, Neville. Do you think I’m lying?”

I don’t have to look. David never lies. Just like Dad.

“Ford won’t believe you,”   I rasp.  
  
“He’s Sherlock Holmes’ brother. I bet he knows the truth when he hears it.”

I sink down into my desk chair. “Why are you doing this to me?”  

“It’s for your own good. You have to get over this fixation. It’s poisoning your life.”

David kneels beside me, brow furrowed. “Shit, Nev! Do you think I want to make you do it? I’d suggest therapy, but the one time you tried that you shagged your shrink. Who wasn’t even gay. Shagging Huxley is the only solution. A bit of what’s been killing you to set you right.”

 _“Have you been listening?_ He doesn’t want me.”  
  
“When he sees you, he’ll want you. Nobody says no to that face. Not since you were four and dragging around Paddington Bear. It would have been better for you if we had. If I’d known _this_ was at the root of all your troubles—” David stops, shaking his head.

“You don’t know him,” I say. “Ford will rip me to pieces the second he sees me. It won’t take him ten words. Or he’ll look right through me and shut the door in my face. Do you know what that will do to me? Do you want your fucking cure to kill me?”

“Yes,” David says. “If that’s what it takes.”

I look at him for a moment. A dozen arguments go through my head, but I know it’s useless. His flinty expression reminds me of how John looked this morning. David isn’t John, though. His personal fixation isn’t danger, but order. He’ll level a house to its foundations to build it again properly. Right now, I’m the wreck he’s set to demolish.

“I hate you,” I whisper. “I’ll never forgive you for this. Do you understand?”

David smiles sadly. He grips my chin in his calloused hand. I try to escape, but he holds tight.

“I love you, Paddington,” he says.   “Come on, I’ll drive you to the hotel. My van is full of Her Ladyship’s lumber, but you don’t take up much room.”

* * *

 

It occurs to me on the way to 45 Park Lane that this whole question of seeing Ford is academic. He’s sure to be staying in the best suite, and you don’t just march up to the penthouse of a five-star hotel and knock on the door. David will drop me off out front, and I’ll make a token trip to the penthouse lift with its keycard-only access. When access is denied, that will be that.

I try not to let my relief show. Which is just as well, because it fades as my brother goes down a side street and pulls up to the service entrance of the hotel. He parks the van and gets out.

“What the hell are you doing?” I ask, but he ignores me and opens the back of the van. When I see him again, he’s wearing a pair of tan coveralls. His phone is in one hand, and he’s texting.

“David—”

“Huxley will be in a secure suite. Penthouse, probably. Hard to surprise a bloke that’s on the top floor with his own private lift. Lucky for you, I know someone who can get us up there.”

 _“What?_ No. This isn’t—”

“What you pictured? Thought you’d make a token run and then slink off into the night?” My brother gives me a cold stare. “I didn’t go to uni like you did. But I’m not a fucking idiot.”

Before I can answer, a solid, sandy-haired man has emerged from the double metal doors that mark the service entrance. It’s two hours past dark, but the back of the hotel is well-lit enough that you can see him clearly. Under the jacket he’s wearing, his coveralls have _45 Park Lane_ emblazoned over the breast pocket. Otherwise, they’re identical to David’s.

“All right, Davy?” the man says. “How’s things?”

“Bloody great.” David jerks his head at me. “This is my brother Neville. Nev, this is George. He used to work with me before moving up in the world. He’s head of maintenance here.”

Sherlock has his homeless network, but it’s got nothing on my brother’s blue-collar cabal.

“What can I do for you, mate?” George says.

“Just a quick favor.”  
  
“Not a problem. I owe you one or two. Remember fucking Islington?”

They chuckle, and I don’t ask. I’m sure Islington involved power tools and pints of lager.

Davy jerks his thumb at me. “Nev needs to see someone staying in the penthouse. Catch him unawares, like. Thought you might lend us the key to the service lift.”  
  
“Why does Nev need to do that?”  
  
“It’s a bit delicate. The man in the penthouse is named Ford Huxley. He’s a filmmaker.”  
  
“I’ve heard of him. Makes that arty shit, doesn’t he?”  
  
“Yeah. Anyway, Nev and Huxley—” David pauses meaningfully.

George gives me a long look, and then his mouth quirks. I redden.

“Know what? Never mind,” George says. “Just tell me this: Am I gonna get sacked?”  
  
“It won’t come to that. Huxley’s a man who likes surprises. He’ll be happy to see Nev.”

“I bet he will.”

“It’s not what you think—” I begin, but George waves a hand at me.

“Whatever.” He fishes in his pocket and takes out a keycard. “If Huxley makes a fuss, you’re gonna say you stole this, right?”

“Right,” David says, taking the card. “Thanks, Georgie.”

George points towards the double doors. “Up the ramp, take a left. Can’t miss the lift.”

“What if someone stops us?” I say.

“David will tell them you’re a guest who got lost, and he’s taking you back to your floor.”

“Won’t they know he doesn’t work here?”

“I’m the only maintenance on duty tonight. As for the front staff—forget it.” George takes out a pack of fags. “Shred the card when you’re done. I’ll make another. First, I’m having a smoke.”

George rounds the corner of the building and is soon out of sight.   David grips my arm and starts leading me up the ramp, but I protest.

“What did he mean, ‘forget it?’ if we get caught—”

“We won’t. One man in coveralls looks like every other.”

“I have a bad feeling about this.”

“What kind of journalist are you, anyway? You’ve never snuck into a building before?”

“It’s the 21st Century. I don’t meet Deep Throat in fucking car parks. I feel like a rent boy.”  
  
“Rent boys don’t wear Burberry.”

“The good ones do.”  
  
“How would you—never mind. Not my business.”

 _"Now_ he stays out of my business,” I mutter, as we enter the building and head to the lift.  

I’ve been to 45 Park Lane before. It’s an Art Deco wonder with sweeping views of Hyde Park. David and I haven’t entered the area meant for guests, though. No marble and mahogany here, just plaster walls and plain tiled floors, the air thick with cooking smells from the nearby kitchen. We pass a few porters on our journey, but they don’t spare us a glance. When we find the service lift it’s a steel monster, nothing like the elegant paneled ones reserved for guests.

By the time we reach the penthouse level, I’m visibly sweating. David puts a calming hand on the back of my neck, which he also uses to steer me out of the lift. Down a bare white hallway and through a door, and the atmosphere changes abruptly. We’re in a plush vestibule, all shiny paneling and amber lights. On our left are the elegant doors to the guest lift, and on our right is an exquisite demilune table adorned with a vase of artfully arranged hydrangeas.

Next to that is the door to the suite. My heart, already tachycardic, beats faster.  

I know I’m being an idiot. I’ve slept rough for six weeks in pursuit of a story. I’ve interrogated MPs and pop stars. I’ve shagged every man in London and some in Bristol, and I shouldn’t give a damn. But this is _Ford_.  

“David,” I rasp. “Stop this. Good bloody joke, but enough.”  
  
“You know I’m not joking. But if you want to leave, the service lift is back there. You don’t even need a card to reach the ground level.”

“You’d really phone Ford.”  
  
“Nope. I’d knock on his door. I mean, I’m right here.”

To prove his point, he starts knocking.

“Maintenance!” he yells.

" _Stop that,”_ I hiss. “What are you doing?”

“Rousing the beast from its den.”

When no answer comes, David knocks again.

I pace to the far side of the vestibule, because it’s that or suffer a shame-induced heart attack.

The door cracks open. I hear a familiar voice, raised a little in irritation. “Would you knock it the fuck off? I didn’t call for any—”

“I know,” David says. “I was joking that time.”  
  
“What are you talking about? Who the hell are you?”

“I’m David St. Clair. Over there’s my brother Nev. You know him, yeah?”

I cringe as the door opens wide and Ford steps into the vestibule. Our eyes meet instantly.

One carries a certain image of Ford Huxley. Tall, dark, and imperially slim, the whole package wrapped in couture. It’s the Ford I’ve known until this moment.

Ford is wearing trackpants and a t-shirt. The pants are wrinkled and have a stain on one knee. The shirt has a vintage _Star Wars_ design. Maybe it really is vintage, because the logo is faded and cracked. The shirt’s neck is stretched out, and the hem has a hole in it. Over this, Ford has thrown a dressing gown of crimson wool. The rich fabric makes his other garments look even worse by contrast. Surprising, this outfit. But it’s not the most surprising thing.

Ford is wearing spectacles. Expensive-looking, but spectacles all the same. The tortoiseshell frames transform his face. He doesn’t look bad—it would take more than spectacles to make Ford ugly—but he looks different. He looks older, his sharp features dimmed to pensiveness.

“Hi,” Ford says.

I swallow. “Hi.”

We blink at each other.

“Lovely,” David says. “I hear bells.”

I break focus on Ford and peer at my brother. “What?”  
  
“I’ll see you, Paddy.” David tucks the keycard in my trouser pocket and slaps me lovingly on the cheek. “Shred this for me, okay? Don’t want it falling into the wrong hands.” He leans in, whispering. “Though I don’t see what all the fuss is about. He’s just some git in glasses.”  

David turns and heads for the service door, whistling “With a Little Help from My Friends.”

Once he’s gone, the vestibule is very silent.

“Is that really your brother?” Ford says at last.

“Yeah.”  
  
“He works here?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Then how did he—”

“Because one man in coveralls looks like every other.”  
  
“What?”  

I don’t answer. Ford pulls his dressing gown closer around him. “Well. This is a surprise.”  
  
I feel myself flushing. “I know. I’m sorry.”  
  
“If you’re sorry, why are you here?” Ford tilts his head. His hair is flat on one side, like he was sleeping on it. Even with that and the grotty clothes, his gaze intimidates.  
  
I’m sick of being intimidated. Right now, I don’t even care that he looks cute in spectacles.

“You canceled on me.”  
  
“It’s not my fault Francis slipped on a squab.”  
  
“How the fuck does that even happen?” Before he answers: “I’m tired of being messed about, Ford. You’re all over me like a bad rash, but the moment things don’t go right, you disappear. I’m sorry Sophie made you play Barbies, all right? But that’s no reason to ignore me for five bloody days. Then you pop up again, begging me to come to dinner with a bunch of strangers, and when it’s off you don’t even try to make alternate plans. What the hell is wrong with you?”  
  
I stop, breathing hard. Ford stares at me, eyes intent. He starts to speak and I flinch, ready for sarcasm and a slamming door.

But all he does is smile. As if he is, indeed, glad to see me.

“Come in, then.”


	62. Chapter 62

** Ford 11 January 2013  **

_Baker Street, some hours earlier_

“So,” I said. “What are you doing for dinner tonight?”

When Neville didn’t answer, I proceeded to give him the hard sell as only I can. For 15 minutes he said nothing, just stared at me while I went on and on. I was starting to think that this wasn’t going to work, that I’d fucked up this relationship once and for all, when he said yes.  

Let’s get something straight: This _isn’t_ a relationship. Some saucy texts and half a blow job doth not a romance make. I don’t do relationships, not since Anderson moved back to New York.

So why did I invite Neville to Oxfordshire? Because I didn’t want to sit next to Pomona the pug at dinner. Because Tom Hiddleston is a very nice man, but I couldn’t listen to one more fucking sonnet. Because Mycroft is a merciless prick who has fucked me yet again. Because—

Because I wanted to. It’s easy to dismiss Neville via text, but it’s harder to resist him when he’s standing there, staring at you with eyes that are as blue as Anderson’s, but kinder. Prettier, and I’ve always been a sucker for pretty. So I asked him, and he said yes.

Of course he did. Nobody says no to Ford Huxley. I would have felt smug about it, but as I left Baker Street, that wasn’t what I was feeling. I had the sinking suspicion that Nev had agreed to dinner not because he was swept away by my river of bullshit, but because he felt sorry for me.

That’s the problem with getting involved with journalists: a good one is 50% writer, 50% psychologist, and 100% cynic, just the sort of person to see right through me. Anderson did, which is one of several reasons I let him move to the other side of the continent.  

I put Neville out of my head as I went to The Ivy, now very late for lunch with Chris Hemsworth and his agent. I hate being late: They always think you’re trying to make some big-dick power move, which I wasn’t, I was just late. The agent tried to play hardball, and though Chris is a sweet guy and a total piece of ass, he’s not getting gross points on three fucking pictures.

So that was a wasted hour, and I realized it about ten minutes in, which totally put me off my risotto. I would have gone back to the hotel at that point—I was going on three hours of sleep and still having rage flashbacks about Mycroft. But coming out of the restaurant, it occurred to me that I had nothing to wear for dinner in the country. Nothing I wanted to wear, anyway.

I spent the rest of the afternoon on Bond Street. Shopping is usually the highlight of my day, and at first it did have a calming effect on my poor throbbing head. But after the clerk at Prada offered to blow me in the fitting room, I had to bolt. I stopped being charmed by that kind of thing around the time I won my first Oscar. Today, it just made the migraine worse.

Which is why I’m lying on the big white hotel bed, a cool cloth over my eyes, when my phone starts playing “Just Like Heaven.” It’s Bijan, calling from the ER of all places. As he tells me what happened, I try to make the right commiserating noises, but he knows me too well.

“I know you’re pleased about this,” he snaps.

“I’m sorry Fran got hurt,” I say. “But how the hell do you slip on a squab?”

“Fuck you, Ford,” Bijan says, and hangs up.

I _am_ sorry it happened, even if the accident sounds like something out of Looney Tunes. But I’m not sorry I don’t have to go to Oxfordshire. The idea of staying in bed and not talking to people? That’s better than a blow job. It’s better than another Oscar.

I’m just lying back when I realize I have one more social obligation. “Fuck me, indeed,” I sigh.

The conversation with Nev is not my finest hour. Even via text, I can tell his feelings are hurt. I try not to picture his expression as I blow him off one final time. If I think about that, I might do something impulsive like inviting him over. A very bad idea. Maybe he didn’t pity me when he said yes to dinner. But if he saw me right now, he would.

I throw my phone on the nightstand and trudge into the bathroom for a piss. After I’m done, I peer at myself in the mirror. I’m not a pretty sight: faded tan, unfortunate hair, rumpled clothes. I’d put on my old _Star Wars_ t-shirt to comfort me. Also my last pair of cleanish sweatpants, ones I bought at the Gap years ago, when I was poor and obscure, and have hung onto for sentimental reasons. I don’t look like Ford Huxley. I’m not him at the moment. Just some sad git in glasses.

I claw them off my face, find another washcloth and run it under the tap. I grab my comfy robe off the back of the bathroom door and wrap it around me. I sprawl on the bed and put the cloth over my eyes. It’s hours and hours before I have to go to the airport. Maybe I’ll be able to sleep. I won’t on the plane: These days, even first class is like enduring the fucking middle passage.

Normally, I would have chartered a private jet for the trip. Flying commercial was my way of traveling incognito. I didn’t know then that I’d be _persona non grata_ , but it’s a basic instinct of mine, to enter the UK quietly. I haven’t been welcome here in 25 years.

It’s a dream I have occasionally. I’m back on the roof with Siger. But in the dream, there is no desperate burst of adrenaline to carry me away. Just Siger’s grip on my arm, his eyes staring into mine. I see my fate in my father’s face, and it’s a horror. Living death in a sterile white room.

I don’t know why he let me go. It was not in his nature to show mercy. What he did to me was not merciful, but it wasn’t the worst he could have done. Siger drew back from the killing blow, and it wasn’t paternal love which motivated him. Even at 17, I knew better.

The question still haunts me. If I ever answered it, maybe I’d quit having the dream. Once and for all, I could get away from Chapel Street.

 _Chapel Street is still there,_ I think hazily. _Always there, and so am I._

I sleep then, though I didn’t think I’d be able to. I dream of Chapel Street, but not the roof. I’m not 17, but much younger. No more than ten. Sitting on the bed in one of the stuffy third-floor bedrooms, my brother beside me. The sweet blond boy I barely remember. His plain, gentle little face is scrunched in a worried expression. He’s always so worried.

_You hand him the 8-ball. “Ask the question, Mikey.”_  
  
 _“Will Sherlock be pretty?” He shakes the 8-ball hard. You both peer at the window._

Without a doubt.

_“Will he be clever?”_

Yes

_“Will he be good?”_

 No

_Mycroft’s brows draw together. “Is it our fault?”_

Yes definitely.

_Mycroft looks stricken. You snatch the 8-ball away. “It’s just a fucking toy.”_  
  
 _“It’s the truth,” he says. “I tried so hard, Sherry. It wasn’t enough.”_

_“I know what you’ve done. I_ know, _Mikey.”_

_He stares at you. Such a sweet face, your brother’s. You’ve missed it terribly._

_“I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to ruin it. I loved it.”_  
  
 _“What—” You stop as you see the cracks in the 8-ball. Fluid is leaking out of them. Not the purple water you expect. This is viscous and red, oozing sluggishly out of the cracks. It drips down over your brother’s fingers. There’s so much of it. So much blood._

_The ball isn’t a ball, it’s a heart. A beating, bleeding heart, held tight in your brother’s hand._

_“Whose is it?” Mycroft says. “Yours or mine?”_  
  
 _“I don’t know.”_

_“I don’t know, either. But it hurts.”_

_He squeezes the heart. You both wince._

_“Please!” you gasp. “Be careful.”_  
  
 _In answer he squeezes it again, tight as a vise on the poor battered heart. The pain is awful—like something vital is being ripped slowly from the center of you. You’re both sobbing with it._

_“I’m sorry,” he says. “This isn’t a game anymore.”_

_“No,” you whisper. “It’s a sacrifice.”_

_He nods with something like relief. You put your hand over his. His flesh is warm, achingly familiar. You don’t know where you end and he begins._

_Moving as one, you squeeze, squeeze. You scream together as the world goes red, then black._

I wake up gasping. It takes me a minute to place the noise that pulled me out of the nightmare.

KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!

“Maintenance!” a voice calls from beyond the door. Then comes another flurry of knocks.

I fumble my glasses out of my robe pocket and push them over my eyes. The world resolves to normal colors and shapes. I stumble to the door, cracking it open. I’m not unhappy to be awake, not after that creepshow, but it doesn’t mean I want to see people.

“Would you knock it the fuck off? I didn’t call for any—”

“I know,” my visitor says. “I was joking that time.”

I stare down at the dumpy little man in coveralls. His wide blue eyes are sparkling wickedly.  
  
“What are you talking about? Who the hell are you?”

“I’m David St. Clair. Over there’s my brother Nev. You know him, yeah?”

Slowly, I open the door wider. I step out into the vestibule.

Neville is slumped into the wall. His hair is sticking up, and his cheeks are scarlet. But he looks lovely. Eyes huge and blue, lips wet and red. Under his peacoat he’s even dressed well for once, in slim black trousers and a green sweater, a white shirt and skinny black tie. Pointy black shoes, highly polished. He looks like the naughty head boy in every schoolmaster fantasy you’ve had.

Why the hell didn’t I invite him over again?

I had reasons. Very good reasons, but they are not occurring to me at present. I clench my hands in my robe pockets, looking for something, anything, to say.

“Hi,” I say.

_Smooth, Sherrinford. I’m surprised he doesn’t fall to his knees and fellate you this second._

“Hi,” he says.

David grins like the Cheshire Cat. “Lovely. I hear bells.” He tucks the keycard that must have gotten them here in Neville’s pocket. David fucks off then, after a whispered exchange with Nev that ends with David smacking his little brother on the ass. He walks down the hall whistling.

My first impression of the older St. Clair brother wasn’t too favorable, but I miss him once he’s gone. Now there’s just me and Neville staring at each other. The silence doesn’t grow any less awkward, as I remember I’m standing in the vestibule dressed like Arthur Dent.

Now I have to say something. Anything. Focus, Sherrinford.

“Is that really your brother?”

“Yeah.”  
  
“He works here?”   I guess it’s possible. Neville, for all his beauty, doesn’t scream posh.  
  
“No.”  
  
“Then how did he—”

“Because one man in coveralls looks like every other.”  
  
“What?”  

Neville says nothing. I pull myself up, tying my robe tighter around me. At least I’m wearing one article that cost more than 20 dollars.

“Well. This is a surprise.”  
  
“I know. I’m sorry.”  
  
“If you’re sorry, why are you here?”  
  
Neville’s chin jerks up. He jabs a finger at me.

“You canceled on me.”  
  
“It’s not my fault Francis slipped on a squab.”  
  
“How the fuck does that even happen?”

I open my mouth, but he goes on. I don’t catch most of it—Thandie has often accused me of spontaneous deafness whenever I’m criticized—but I’ve heard enough rants from disappointed lovers to catch the general drift. Instead, I focus on how cute Nev looks when he’s in a temper. Like a pissed-off Kewpie doll.

He finally stops, face flushed, slim chest breathing hard. He stares at me, more tentative now. He looks like he’s wondering if I’ll slam the door in his face.

Not fucking likely. I mean, _look at him_. Sure, I blew him off two hours ago, but I think we’ve all realized that my judgment is questionable. I adjust my spectacles, grinning at him.

“Come in, then.”

The penthouse of 45 Park Lane is amazing, if you’re not too picky about colors. You enter into the huge lounge area, with its wraparound windows that boast heartstopping views of Hyde Park and the city beyond. The walls are mahogany paneling, the floors Travertine marble inlaid with stone of a darker shade. The furniture is gorgeously garish, with plum velvet sofas and chairs of red leather. In one corner is a red leather chaise next to a roaring gas fire. In the other corner is a dining area, purple chairs grouped around an oval mahogany table. Modern art is everywhere: a mural in the dining room, pictures and photos on the walls, _objets_ scattered on the bookshelves and marble occasional tables. At both ends of the suite are doorways leading to bedrooms. The one to the smaller bedroom is closed, but the master is visible. You can see a glimpse of the big white bed, only mildly rumpled from my afternoon siesta.

I can see that Nev is impressed. He’d be more so, if there weren’t crap everywhere. The sofas are strewn with notebooks and papers. My iPad is on the coffee table, mugs ringed around it. Open suitcases are all over, piled on the easy chairs and the dining table, balanced precariously on the chaise. There are lots and lots of shopping bags from my favorite stores: Burberry, Hugo Boss, Prada. (I did buy that sweater, even after the clerk pissed me off.) Some of the bags are overturned, spilling their contents onto the tiles.

I see Neville taking in my mess, and I feel myself color. I pick up one of the mugs on the coffee table and put it on an end table. I pluck my favorite new Prada sweater out of the bag and place it lovingly into an open suitcase, on top of a knot of sweaty gym clothes.

“Much better,” he says.

“Fuck you.” But I can’t help grinning. “My assistant usually packs for me. Ishiko is amazing: She could fit all of this in three suitcases, does some kind of origami-mojo on them.”

I should have brought Ishiko. The suite is 3000 square feet, so there was room. She doesn’t take up much space anyway: You could fit her into an overhead compartment if she didn’t snap your neck first. I didn’t bring her because London affects me in strange ways. Nothing ruins a good working relationship like seeing your boss squabbling with his brother like he’s 12 years old, or standing at his other brother’s grave sobbing his guts out.

“You could call downstairs,” Neville suggests. “They’d send somebody to help.”

“I’m not letting some random person up here to pick through my things. Especially when I have notes for the new film all over the place. The last thing I need is to have the screenplay showing up in its ugly gestational form on _Ain’t It Cool News.”_

“Do you really think that’s a danger?”

“The love of fans is a scary thing,” I say. “Lucrative, but scary.” I sit down on one end of the sofa, feeling papers crinkle under my ass. I rub my throbbing temples. “Fuck me. I wish this tiny angry goddess in my head would just bust out already.”

Neville picks up a couple of notebooks from the other end of the sofa. He places them carefully on the coffee table and sits down. “You’re really not well, are you?”  
  
“I wasn’t _lying,”_ I say. “I know everyone thinks I’m an awful person, but I have feelings too.”  
  
“I never said you didn’t.”

I run my hands over my forearms, letting myself be somewhat soothed by the plush wool of my robe. It’s a custom job I had made in Paris. I paid a scary amount for it, even for my budget. It’s similar to one that I had as a teenager, but much nicer. The color isn’t faded, there are no mothholes, and nobody blew his brains out in it. Goddamn, I miss Uncle Evie’s dressing gown.

I look up to see Neville staring at me intently.

“What?” I snap. “Look, I know I acted like a dick earlier, but you have no idea, Nev. This has been the shittiest day to end all shitty days. My head hurts, my clothes are fucking breeding in the suitcases, my fucking screenplay has third-act problems, and Chris Hemsworth wants gross points—I know he’s Thor, but come on. The actual God of Thunder would not get gross points. The only luck I had today was Francis slipping on a squab, and no, I don’t know how it happens, but somehow Bijan is mad at me about it, and that makes everybody. My brothers are mad at me and I don’t care. I have three fucking Oscars for writing, and even I cannot express how much they suck. This whole trip has not gone how I thought it would go. Not at all.”

I take a breath, rubbing at my sleeves. “You’ve been the only bright spot in the whole thing, and yeah, I should have invited you over. But I just couldn’t be Ford Huxley tonight.”

I don’t look at him. I’ve said too much. Much too much. But when I do manage eye contact, Neville is smirking at me. Not a mean one. Indulgent, somehow. The way someone smirks at you when he knows you well and is neither impressed nor repulsed by all your bullshit.

See? This is what happens when you get involved with journalists. But I’m not sorry he’s here. As Neville scoots closer to me, I realize that he has seven freckles on his nose. Precisely seven. Nobody should be this goddamn cute. It allows him to take all kinds of unfair advantage.

“I would like to ask you a personal question,” he says.

I blink at him slowly. “Um.”  
  
“I’ll take that as a yes. When was the last time you ate?”

I blink again. “I had three bites of risotto at lunchtime.”

“Wow, three whole bites. Before that?”  
  
“Half a scone at brunch.”  
  
Neville rolls his eyes. “You glutton, you. Anything else?”  
  
“Yes, coffee. Lots of coffee. Black.”

He runs hands through his hair. “Bloody hell. No wonder you’re in a state.” He opens the end table drawer and starts rummaging. He pulls something out. “Room service menu. Perfect.”

“I’m not—”

“Yes, you are. Most of your existential crisis is blood sugar. You’re worse than my ex: I’ve seen Angie make grown men cry because she needed a sandwich.” He shakes his head. “I can’t believe I was nervous about coming over here. You, Sherrinford Holmes, are a colossal mess. Though you do look fetching in spectacles.”

I push mine up my nose self-consciously, searching for a scathing reply. But none arises in my admittedly fuzzy thoughts. Shit, maybe I am hungry.

“How do you keep from starving to death?” Neville asks.

“Ishiko makes me eat,” I say glumly. “She threatens me.”

“Your assistant threatens you?”

 “She’s terrifying. All five feet of her. I’d fire her, but I am afraid.”

 "Good for Ishiko,” Neville says. His eyes scan the menu. “What do you want?”  
  
“A salad.”  
  
“Steak it is. You can get it with carmelized onions. Let’s see, with some fried onions on the side, _and_ creamed spinach. Hey, they have mac and cheese! It’s on the kids’ menu, but fuck it. We’re in the penthouse suite. They’d probably grill up one of the bellboys if we asked nicely.”  
  
“I can’t eat all that. Red meat makes you fat. And the fucking carbs in those sides—”

“Carbs are delicious. That’s why we’re also having the banana cream pie with banana ice cream, and something called ten year chocolate sauce. They probably call it that because it takes you ten years to pay off the meal. These prices are outrageous. Good thing you’re stinking rich.”

“You can order anything you want,” I plead. “But Nev—”

“Shut up, Sherrinford. You aren’t even making sense. That’s what happens when you subsist on coffee and the odd bite of risotto.”   Neville purses his lips. “What shall we have to drink?”  
  
I throw my head back against the sofa, resigned. Well, I have been trying to get Nev to dinner all week. And that dessert does sound tempting. I haven’t eaten ice cream since college, and only then because Thandie and I were rolling on X.  

“Hey, do you want wine or beer?”

“Neither,” I say. “Don’t order any of that shit. I’ve got two bottles of Richebourg.” I was going to send them to Bijan as an apology, but never mind. It’s not my fault Francis is a klutz.

Neville raises an eyebrow. “Richebourg? I really will have to put out.”  
  
I tilt my head at him. “Is that a problem?”  
  
“I came here to put out. But dinner is a nice bonus,” he says, picking up the phone to order.

 

* * *

 

“Now I’m too fat too fuck. What a waste of Richebourg,” I sigh.

Neville smirks at the remains of the giant repast spread out on the coffee table. He dips a finger in the chocolate sauce that still dabbles his dessert plate and licks it off his fingers. His eyes are sparkling in triumph, like a man who just pulled off a difficult but satisfying challenge.

I guess he did. I wasn’t planning to eat steak with a fried onion and then more fried onions, not to mention creamed spinach and mac and cheese and, Lord help me, banana cream pie with ice cream and chocolate sauce. But somehow my plates are all empty. My face is flushed from the unaccustomed rush of carbs and heavy red protein, and in the middle of my gut is an unfamiliar full feeling. It’s not uncomfortable. I’m not uncomfortable: That’s the discomfiting thing.

I put fingers to my temples. The migraine has been replaced by a pleasant buzz from too many calories and two bottles of Burgundy. I lean my head back against the sofa, trying to remember what we’d been talking about before I saw I was too stuffed to accomplish any sort of seduction.

Our conversation had started with Neville picking up a few of my notes, reading them as we waited for room service. This should have annoyed me. I really hate anyone seeing my writing in the early draft stages. It’s equivalent to someone seeing you in sweatpants and spectacles, but I’d somehow survived Neville encountering _that_ , so when he started scanning my outline I just shrugged. The fact that I’d already downed a couple of glasses of wine might have contributed to my lack of ire. Nev’s a fast reader: Within a few minutes he’d made his way through the ten-page treatment and started on the screenplay.   His face was thoughtful but otherwise unreadable.

Wine buzz or no, I couldn’t take the suspense. “Well?” I said finally. “What do you think?”  
  
Neville tapped the sheets on the coffee table, aligning the pages neatly. “I see what you mean,” he said. “The story isn’t working. But I don’t think it’s a third-act problem.”  
  
“What?” But before Neville could answer, there was a knock at the door. Dinner had arrived.

It took the server ten minutes to arrange everything, be tipped and dismissed. Then Neville had to pour us both another glass of wine and steal one of my fried onions. I impatiently tapped my fork on the plate. “What do you mean, it isn’t a third-act problem?”

Neville took a sip of Richebourg, closing his eyes and savoring a moment before answering. “Why don’t you tell me the whole story? Then I’ll tell you what I think.”

So that was our dinner conversation, me telling Nev the plot of _Dagger of the Mind_. It’s not unlike my mother’s original plot, but tightened in focus and heightened dramatically, as a film made from a novel must be. Whenever I stopped, Nev asked a question, asking me to clarify this piece of exposition or that twist in the narrative. All the while, he plied me with wine and food. Within half an hour I had finished most of the story and everything on my plate.

Now Nev is sitting there, enjoying the last of his pie and looking like the cat that ate the canary, while I’m loosening the waist of my sweats and trying to pick up the thread of the conversation.

“What happens after Michael gets the codex from Jonathan?” Neville prods.  

“Right,” I say. “Well, Michael is going to kill him, obviously, but then Maddy—”

“Why ‘obviously’?”  
  
“He’s the villain, Nev.”  
  
“But he already saved Jonathan’s life—what, three times?”  
  
“That was just to get the codex. Once Michael has what he wants, he’s obviously going to get rid of Jonathan. The professor knows too much.”

“But they’re friends.”  
  
“No, they’re _not,”_ I reply. “Michael Houseman doesn’t have friends. He’s a cold-hearted, self-serving son-of-a-bitch. He never felt anything for Jonathan Fine. It was all just manipulation.”

I finish the rest of my wine, hand tight on the glass.

“That’s why the story doesn’t work.”

I jerk my head up. “What?”  
  
Neville starts counting off on his fingers. “Michael saves Jonathan from the Russian hit squad.   He lies to his superiors to take the heat off of Jonathan. He takes Jonathan on the run with him, even though the professor is so clueless he’s a liability. That scene in the Budapest airport? It’s like something out of a buddy cop movie. It’s _funny,_ mate. These two have sodding chemistry. But then you have Michael abusing underage Thai hookers and threatening Jonathan’s girlfriend and trying to kill Jonathan at the end. It doesn’t make sense.”

“I never said Michael wasn’t multi-dimensional.”  
  
“That isn’t a round character, it’s an inconsistent one. Which is strange, because you’re known for strong characterization. In your movies, the audience always knows exactly who everyone is. But you don’t seem to know how you feel about Michael Houseman. Why is that?”  
  
Neville’s gaze is close upon my face. To get away from the scrutiny I lean forward, refilling my glass. I tip the bottle up, up, emptying it. A pour-and-a-half a least, the red wine almost spilling over the glass, but I don’t feel guilty for being greedy. I take a long swallow.

“You know, I’ve talked to your brother Mycroft. He doesn’t seem like a villain.”  
  
I choke, spraying wine all over myself and the coffee table. A napkin is waved in front of my face, which I ignore. I use the hem of my t-shirt to mop up before turning and glaring at Nev. “Where did you get that—”

“Come on,” he says. “I’ve read _The Shadow Son_. It’s not like your mother tried very hard to change the family names, _Sheridan_.” He scrubs hands through his hair. “Look, I’m not trying to pry, all right? But Mycroft came to my flat this week to chat about the Moriarty situation, and though he wasn’t warm and fuzzy, he wasn’t the psychopath you portray in half these scenes. He was more like the other Michael you have here: clever and dangerous, yes, but controlled.”

Nev stops a minute. When he speaks again his tone is thoughtful. “ _Reasonable_ , that’s how I’d describe your brother. It’s why he’s dangerous. He sees everything so clearly. Mycroft would make a bad enemy, I think. But he’d be a loyal friend.”  

 _“Loyal?”_ I spit. “You have no idea what you’re talking about. You’ve read a few books, Nev, but you don’t know my family. I lived in that house, understand? You don’t know how cold a reasonable man can be. How monstrous.”

There are many things that I’ll never forgive my father. But if there had been only this one thing, it would have been enough to secure my hatred forever. What Siger did to Mycroft can’t be forgiven. I watched my father take a sweet, gentle boy, and turn him inside out. It took Siger years to do it, but he was patient. I saw the light go out of my brother’s eyes bit by bit, day by day, until there was nothing left of what he’d been. Until he was my father’s creature entirely.

“Is that what you think your brother is?” Neville says. “A monster?”

I can’t go into what Mycroft did when we were kids. More precisely, what he didn’t do. I can’t tell Neville the story of how Mycroft didn’t help me the one time I really needed it. My brother didn’t tell our father that I was sleeping with Felicity. Though if Mycroft had, Siger would have believed him. Mycroft must have known how Siger would react: He knew our father better than Sherlock or I ever did. I used to think he couldn’t know him, not really, but how could he not? Mycroft was Siger’s protégé. He never stood up to him. Not once.

I remember those first weeks after our mother left. I tried to talk to Mycroft, to make him tell me why he’d done it. Why he ruined everything, when all he had to do was keep quiet. He wouldn’t talk to me. _Then_ he was silent, going dead behind his eyes, turning away. Swelling before my eyes, from the endless stream of sweets going in his gob. It put me off my own food. He got fat and I got thin, and I was glad. Nobody took us for twins anymore.

I won’t tell Neville about Chapel Street. What does it matter, anyway? All that was over and done with long ago. There are fresher grievances to resent. I meet Neville’s questioning gaze.

“Mycroft didn’t invite me to Sherlock’s funeral. The day he put our baby brother in the ground, I was at home in Malibu editing _Heart of Darkness_. I didn’t know it had happened until a blurb showed up on the web. The whole thing was fake, but I didn’t know it. _Mycroft_ didn’t know. And he killed my Sherlock movie. I’d been working on the project for six months, and he killed it in five minutes. Threatened to destroy Bijan if I didn’t stop. Now he’s throwing me out of England because he thinks I’m a bad influence. I’m banished from my own country. Again.”  
  
I take off my glasses, rubbing my eyes. “I’m glad Mycroft was nice when he came to see you. But he’s not a nice person. After what he’s done, I have every reason to hate him.”

“But you don’t hate him.”

I stare at Neville. He’s leaning in, close enough that I see him clearly even without glasses. His eyes are wet. I don’t know why he’d cry over this. He can’t know how I feel. He _can’t._

He grips my wrist. His hand is much smaller than mine, the fingers shorter and rougher with close-bitten nails. Not lovely like his face. But the hand has a wiry strength to it, the fingers firm and warm. I feel his warmth like electric current, flowing into me.

“You don’t,” he says. “You’re very angry at him, but you miss him terribly.”

I shake my head. Neville nods in return.

“I don’t know how true _The Shadow Son_ is,” he says. “But the relationship between the two boys, Sheridan and Michael, your mum got that right, didn’t she? Not twins but close as twins, at least until the divorce. And after . . . that gibberish the boys spoke, French with some Latin and Greek thrown in, as well as a few words they made up. You still speak it. I heard you and Mycroft this morning. You haven’t forgotten anything. Twins and doubles are all over your films, love. Mirror images, repeated over and over. But the mirror is always broken.”

Neville leans even closer. His eyes seem to take up the entire horizon of my vision, huge and blue and hypnotic. I seem to fall into them, a dizziness that must be the wine but doesn’t feel like drunkenness. It hurts, like someone squeezing your heart as hard as he can.

“I didn’t get it,” he whispers. “Why you’ve been so strange this week, why you kept vanishing. I should have understood. I’ve seen your films. The films are you—beautiful, complex, tragic. You break our hearts because yours is broken. You seduce and you vanish, before the audience knows who’s really there. But I know. I’ve watched over and over, looking for you. Don’t you see? I don’t want Ford Huxley. I’ve spent 12 years searching for Sherrinford Holmes.”

I feel my throat catch, a sound escaping that’s more sob than speech. I can’t speak but I don’t have to, because Neville takes my face in his hands and kisses me.  

He tastes like the dinner we had, like chocolate and red wine, steak with a faint bite of onion. It’s a devastating kiss, teasing at first, his tongue flicking at mine. Then he coaxes my mouth wider, probing deeper, his hands cupping my face, thumbs tracing my cheekbones. He breaks the kiss and starts nibbling at my jaw. I feel his hands moving down, pushing my robe off my shoulders. His hands tease at the waist of my sweats as his mouth devours my neck, and then he’s claiming my lips again while he pulls my t-shirt off.

This isn’t how I do things. I’m the one in control when I do this. Not that I do it often anymore. Months and months since I’ve done it, and perhaps that’s why this is affecting me so. I can feel a pulsing in my head, one that isn’t painful but powerful.

I try to take control then, pulling Neville’s necktie off and getting his sweater over his head. Oh, his throat is delicious, white as cream but sweeter. I can taste his pulse, which is racing as fast as mine, but before I can get his trousers open he’s pushing me back on the sofa.

“Huh-uh,” he says. “Not yet. Something I need to finish.” Neville smirks, his lips redder than ever from kissing. He’s sitting on top of me, gripping me through my sweats. I feel my already stiffened cock start to throb.

He takes the keycard out of his back pocket. He holds it in his left hand, gazing at it while his right hand continues to stroke me. “You’ve no idea what it took to get me here,” he says. “Davy almost frogmarched me from the service lift. But now I’m here, and no one can interrupt us.”

He throws the card on the coffee table. He stares at me, his eyes sparkling with strange ferocity. I know this expression from when we were snogging on his sofa last Sunday. That’s when I saw that there was more to pretty little Neville than meets the eye. Fathoms more, dangerous depths I could lose myself in. I should have bolted, but I didn’t. I just lay back, exactly as I’m doing now.

I hear papers crackling beneath me. My hand clutches at a sofa cushion as Nev pulls my sweats down around my thighs. His gaze falls from my face to my cock, which is curving hard against my belly. I whine as one of his fingers traces slowly around the edge of my foreskin.

The finger is replaced by his tongue, a slick slide of warmth on sensitive flesh. I close my eyes, but they fly open again when Nev pinches one of my nipples hard.

“No,” he says. “Watch me, Sherrinford. You’re a Holmes, so you never forget what you see. Wherever you are tomorrow, you’ll see this. Twenty years from now, you’ll see _me_.”

He grips my cock, pushing back the foreskin as he sucks the swollen head. I arch up from the sofa with a soft profanity as he circles the tender ridges of flesh. Then Neville moves down, his tongue tracing veins until he reaches my balls. I gasp at the sick-sharp pleasure of having first one and then the other rolled between those plump red lips. There’s heat pooling down there, a throb which beats in time to the pulse in my temples. I see my pulse beating in purple flashes.

“Nev—” I gasp. “Please—”  

“Shhh,” he says. “Just look.”

With one graceful move, he sucks me all the way down. The sensation is exquisite, but what truly moves me is the sight of him doing it. His small hand with its bitten nails, gently cupping my balls. His rosy lips wrapped around the base of my cock. His cheeks with their sprinkle of freckles, hollowed out from the effort of sucking. His soft black curls falling over his forehead, dampened at the edges with sweat. In 20 years, I’ll see him in perfect detail. I’ll see him forever.

I’ve had so many men. In the days before overwork and overexposure drained the joy out of sex, I had them all over the world. Cool professionals and eager amateurs, in quite shocking numbers. This isn’t the first great head I’ve had. But this is different, somehow. This is Neville St. Clair. Lovely, clever Nev, working so hard to please me. You could fall in love from the thought of it.

But what would really get you is seeing him, seeing you. Everything he’s been doing to you, and his clear blue gaze has never faltered. He looks at you differently from the others you’ve known. (Well, there was _one_ like this, but he moved to New York years ago.) Neville is giving head like a pro, but he’s looking at you like he loves you. That’s what terrifies you, just like it did Sunday. But maybe your judgment is better now than it was then, because you’re not bolting and you’re not looking away. You’re just clutching the edge of the sofa and coming your brains out—

I come with a moan that sounds like pain. One doozy of a climax, a golden rush that starts in my groin and spirals out, and out, and out, hot and bright as California sun. Neville takes everything I give him. He swallows me like he loves the taste of me. When I’m done he pulls back, placing a kiss on my belly. I close my eyes, basking in the glow like I’m back on my deck in Malibu.

It’s some minutes before I return to London. I look up to see Neville hovering over me.   He’s close enough that I could count the freckles on his nose. But I don’t have to: There are seven. A constellation of seven, cinnamon-colored and so cute.

“Well,” he says. “How are you?”

“Okay,” I say, distracted. I’m still trying to work out which constellation is on Neville’s nose. Orion, or maybe the Pleiades.

Then I blink, pulling my thoughts back from beyond.

“Do you want me to . . . ?” I say, wiggling my fingers.

“No,” he says. “You were out of it for a few minutes, so I took care of myself.” He glances down at his now-open trousers, grinning a roguish grin, but I’m guilty. He had me seeing stars, and I couldn’t even give him a courtesy jerk-off.   I’d be humiliated by my own lack of bedroom etiquette, if my thoughts weren’t interrupted by a face-splitting yawn.

Neville climbs off me. “Why don’t you take a nap?” he says. “You look knackered.”

“Not tired,” I say. “Have guests to entertain. Can’t be nap—” I cut off with another yawn.

Neville finds my robe on the floor and arranges it over me. He kisses me on the forehead. “Sleep, Sherrinford.”

I’m _not_ tired. I certainly don’t need tucking in like a toddler. I’m composing a scathing retort, one that will let Nev know exactly who he’s dealing with. But I’m only a few words in before everything goes sort of dim and hazy, and I curl up under my comfy robe and fall right asleep.


	63. Chapter 63

_“You fucking little faggot.”_  
  
 _The words are meant to hurt, and they do. But what’s so much worse is the look on your father’s face. It’s one you’ve never seen before, and will never forget. Contempt with something colder beneath it. A rage that freezes you to your bones._

_You’ve always known that he hates you. You didn’t know that he wants to kill you. Your father is a killer, and he won’t show mercy because you’re his son. Because you are, he has to kill you. Wipe the stain of you from his house forever._

_You have to leave this house, you have to run. Your life depends on it, but you can’t move. You feel his grip around your arm, and you know it’s too late. It’s always been too late for you—_

I awake with a start. Sitting straight up, heart pounding, chest heaving. It takes me a minute to remember when and where I am. London, yes, but not Chapel Street. I’m at my hotel, and I’m not in danger. The danger has been dead for 15 years.  

I peer around owlishly for a minute, until I spot my glasses on the coffee table. I push them on, and everything goes from ominous blur to familiar garish luxury. I get up, stumbling for the loo.

My mouth tastes like onions and stale wine, and my bladder is throbbing. I take what seems like a two-hour piss. Then I brush my teeth and splash my face with water. I put my glasses back on and stare at myself in the mirror. Not bad, actually. The hair is tragic, but my eyes are clear and I have color in my face. A hearty meal and fabulous head will do that for you—

Speaking of which, where the hell is Neville?    

I feel my heart pounding again. Maybe he’s fucked off. Maybe he thought better of things once he saw what a bespectacled basketcase I really am. Maybe I’ve fucked this up once and for all—

_Maybe he’s out on the terrace having a smoke will you fucking get it together, Sherrinford?_

Taking a few deep breaths, I give the mirror my coolest, most composed look. But before I leave the bath I put in my contact lenses. Just in case.

I glance at the clock as I head back into the main room. It’s just after 11 PM. I could slap myself for wasting hours of my final night with Nev on a nap, but there’s no point dwelling on it. I’ll do the best I can with what we have left.

He is, as any sensible person would have known immediately, out on the terrace having a smoke.

Even if you hate tobacco like I do, it’s worth braving the January chill to take in the view. I still think the suite is overpriced, but I have to admit that the sweeping panorama of London at night is worth something. The terrace runs the length of the main room, an expanse of white concrete that’s divided between a dining area with a long glass table, and a lounging area with club chairs framed in teak. Plexiglass panels shield the visitor from the long drop to the street. No worries that guests paying thousands of pounds will tumble over, even after two bottles of Richebourg.

I don’t feel drunk anymore, though. A long nap and the shock of winter air have me dead sober. I’ve pulled on a coat over my robe and I have slippers on my feet, but I’m still freezing. Neville, tough Londoner that he is, seems oblivious to the chill. He’s wearing his peacoat, but his shirt is open at the throat. He’s curled up in a club chair, a fag in one hand and his phone in the other.

He glances over as I push open the terrace door. His cheeks and lips are rosy with cold, and his hair is falling into his eyes. He looks at me, and I have to pause a second, taking in the picture. You could use it as a publicity still, it’s that pretty. The boy with the sparkling skyline behind him, staring at you with such a heartstopping smile. Crop it close, because to sell this movie all you’ll need is that face. Those high cheekbones and pointed chin, pert nose and wicked mouth. Innocent blue eyes under determined dark brows. The audience will fall in love with that face.

_Easy, man. Maybe you are still drunk._

Maybe I am. I plop down in the other club chair, huddling under my layers of insulation.  
  
Neville exhales slowly, regarding me through a haze of smoke. “There you are,” he says.

“Sorry I slept so long.”

“I think you needed it.”  
  
“What have you been doing all this time?”  
  
“Pocketing the silver. Working out the passwords to your secret bank accounts.”

“Did you find the one in the Caymans?”  
  
“Uh-huh.”  
  
“Sophie’s acquisition of a pink Barbie cruise ship is assured.”  
  
“Fuck that. I can buy her a real cruise ship now.”

“And I thought you loved me for my brain.”

“Brains are overrated. Even a great big one like yours. Your great big cock, though—”

“Hush.” I kick him in the shin with my slippered toe. “What have you really been doing?”

“Reading an ebook of _Dagger of the Mind_. Wanted to see how it compared to your screenplay.”

“And?”  
  
Neville ashes his cigarette on the concrete, then takes a thoughtful drag. “Now I get why your screenplay is so schizophrenic. All of Michael Houseman’s nastier scenes come straight from the book. Your mum didn’t have any doubts about her feelings for him, did she?”  
  
“No.” I realize I’m fisting my hands in my coat pockets and I unfist, curling them in my lap. “She never forgave Mycroft for ratting her out. I think she could have forgiven him the divorce. She’d been tired of Siger for a long time. But losing Sherlock—she couldn’t get over that.”

“Not exactly your brother’s fault though, was it? He didn’t work out the custody arrangement.” Neville pauses for a minute, looking uncertain. “Violet had a choice, didn’t she?”  
  
I go still. Then, very softly: “What do you mean, Neville?”

He takes another quick hit on his cigarette. He puts his phone in his coat pocket and runs a hand through his hair nervously. “I’ve been meaning to tell you, but there just hasn’t been a good time. I mean, you know I’m not an eavesdropper, right? But this morning, at Baker Street—”

“You speak French,” I say flatly.

“Yeah, I do. Not as well as you do, but well enough.”

 _Well enough to hear all the nasty secrets you and Mycroft were screaming in the back garden. Enough to know how fucking sordid your family history really is._  
  
Despite the chill, my face feels hot. I look away, concentrating hard on the skyline. I try to think of nothing but how ugly the Gherkin is, but the flush of humiliation remains.

My hand is clenched in a smaller, sweatier one. “Ford,” Neville says. “Look at me. Please.”  
  
I look at him, though I should be glaring. I try to glare, but Jesus Christ, that face. It should be registered as some kind of psychological weapon.

“All right,” I say. “My mother was fucking her lover in her marital bed. That should give you some idea of how much she hated her husband. Believe me, he deserved it. One day, Mycroft came home early with a tummy ache and saw her hard at it with Patrick. They didn’t see him, though. Mum didn’t know, nobody did but me, until my brother puked his guts out all over the dinner table. Then Siger knew that something was going on. He didn’t miss much, not once his antennae were up. Mycroft told him everything. The divorce took six months, but Mum was out of the house that night. Siger told her she could stay in London if she gave up Patrick, but she wouldn’t. By the time the Decree Absolute came through, she was already living in Sydney.”

Neville’s brows have drawn together. “She chose her lover over her sons.”  
  
“No, she _didn’t_ ,” I insist. “Siger made it look that way to blacken her name, but it wasn’t a real choice. If she’d stayed in London, he never would have left her alone. He’d have driven her mad with his spying. Mum probably would have ended up swallowing a bottle of pills like poor Jean Seberg. He never would have let her have custody of her baby. Siger didn’t give a damn about Sherlock, and keeping him from his mum fucked my brother up ten different ways, but that made no difference. _That’s_ the kind of person my father was. Okay?”

“Okay,” Neville says quietly.

I realize I’ve been clutching his hand so hard it probably hurts. I let him go. I should be angry at him for prying, but I’m not. Right now I don’t feel anything but cold.

We sit silently for a few minutes, looking out at the lights of London. I trace the view from the dome of St. Paul’s to the Gherkin, across Waterloo Bridge to the London Eye and Big Ben. The weight of this ancient city presses down on me like stone. Like the stones of Westminster Abbey, where some of my ancestors are buried. London, my birthplace but not my home.

“I’m sorry,” Neville says.

“It’s all right,” I reply, still watching the Eye go round and round. “I suppose you couldn’t help overhearing. Snobbish of me, to think you couldn’t speak French.”

“Not that.” Nev presses my hand, and I look at him. His eyes are bright with tears. “I’m sorry it happened. To you, to Mycroft, to Sherlock. You were just kids. I don’t know how you survived.”  

 _I’m not sure we did_. I don’t say that. Bad dialogue, way too maudlin. It would never make it past a first draft of a screenplay. Instead I say, “We managed. I had the Cure and copious sex and drugs to comfort me. Brother Mycroft had treacle tarts and his own self-righteousness.”

“What about Sherlock?”  
  
“Sherlock had Mycroft.” I say this before I think about it. Once I do, I know it’s true.

“So, Mycroft’s not totally a monster.”  
  
“No,” I say, after a second. “He’s always looked after Sherlock. Worries over him like a mama hen. It’s an instinct with Mycroft, worrying.”

When Sherlock came to stay with me in Los Angeles, I didn’t worry. I wanted him to stand on his own, to be normal. I wanted it to be different for him than it was for me, so different that his first night in LA, I gave him an eight ball of coke and a pair of twins. Threw in my hot assistant for good measure. I didn’t mean it as a manipulation. I _didn’t_ want to do what Siger had done to me. But sometimes I wonder. If, stripped of the LA setting, it wasn’t the same awful thing.

I’m not my father. I’ve spent my whole life proving that. I’m not a killer, like him.

Even under my thick coat and wool robe, I’m shivering. Neville grinds out his cigarette and squeezes my hand. “Come on,” he says. “Let’s go inside.”

As I hold the door so we can go in, I see Neville wiping the last of the tears from his eyes.

I don’t want pity. But I don’t think that’s what he’s feeling. Pity is a worthless emotion. Empathy, though—the real kind—is precious. Being seen for who you really are.

 _I don’t want Ford Huxley. I’ve spent 12 years searching for Sherrinford Holmes_.

Excellent dialogue. If this were a movie, I’d put it in the trailer.

 _This isn’t a fucking movie. That isn’t what he wants. What the fuck do_ you _want?_

I want him. It’s been so long since I’ve felt this, I’d forgotten what it’s like. The feeling that if you don’t touch him right now, you’re going to die.

“Wait,” I rasp. Neville barely pauses before I push him against the window next to the terrace door. He must have brushed fairly recently, because he tastes of toothpaste as well as cigarettes. A minty-smoky taste I find delicious. I’m still shivering from the outside chill, but his mouth is hot. It reminds me of our kiss last Sunday, that brain-melting snog in the snow.

I break the kiss, but I don’t let him go. Instead I lean in, nuzzling the velvety skin below his ear. “I’ve been a bad host,” I murmur.

“Yes,” he sighs. “Very bad.”  
  
“I know I’ve been neglecting you. What do you want?”  
  
“Anything I want?”  
  
“Anything.”  
  
As he whispers it to me, I feel the heat creeping into my face. But the flush doesn’t last long, because most of my blood is headed for my cock. I have to swallow before I speak. “Okay.”

He leads me by the hand into the master bedroom, striding ahead with eager steps.

“Strip,” he says, taking off his own coat.

My clothes are less binding, so I’m naked much sooner. I recline on the bed to watch him. I’ve never seen Neville naked, which is still more proof of my questionable judgment. ( _Pathological_ was Anderson’s phrasing, when he caught me in bed with the two leads from that WB show.)

Neville unbuttons his white shirt and shrugs it off. He’s almost as white underneath, a perfect milky paleness except for the cinnamon freckles on his shoulders. He’s thin in a way you don’t see much in LA, not gym-toned like the boys out there but not soft at all, truly small and almost perfectly proportioned. Sloping shoulders, a small waist and—as he gets his pants off—slender thighs. He sees me watching and winks, big eyes sparkling. 

Fuck, I bet the camera loves him. If I’d met him ten years ago, I could have made a star of him. I’m glad I didn’t meet him. Neville doesn’t deserve that sorry fate.

“See something you like?” he says, tilting his head. 

“Everything. Come here.” I reach out a hand, my fingers clenching as he drops his boxer-briefs. His cock is—Christ, the only word for it is _pretty_. As pretty as the rest of him, and just as much in proportion. Already standing at attention, pertly pink and ready to play.

“Supplies?” he says, keeping his attention on the relevant details.

“The suitcase by the TV console.” Neville rummages a minute, finds the condoms and lube, and tosses them on the bedside table. Then he crawls onto the bed. He straddles me, knees on either side of my thighs, and ogles my groin.

“Hmm,” he says. “I’d be intimidated, but I like a challenge.”

“I’ve heard.”  
  
“Yes, I’m slutty. Don’t judge.”  
  
“I’m from Hollywood, honey. Everybody is slutty out there.”  
  
“Sounds like fun.”  
  
“It used to be.”  
  
“Not now?”  
  
“Now it’s exhausting. Everything there is about sex. Except for the sex, which is about power.”  
  
“That does sound exhausting. And you already have power.” Neville traces a finger around the head of my cock, which swells a bit more in response. He raises both eyebrows at it. “Tell me, how does it feel to always know you’ve got the biggest dick in the room?”      

“Not always. I’ve worked with Fassbender. There’s an endowment you’d find intimidating.”

He gives me an odd smile. “I don’t want to fuck Michael Fassbender.”  
  
“Just as well, since you’re not a black supermodel.”

Neville leans over me. He comes so close, I see dark flecks in his blue eyes.

“I want to fuck you,” he says. “I don’t want power, I just want your cock. I want to feel it so deep inside that it hurts. For years, I’ve wanted it. Does that make me a pathetic stalker?”  
  
“Probably,” I whisper. “I don’t care.”  
  
He kisses me hungrily, clutching at my shoulders like he’s afraid I’m going to be snatched away. I hold him almost as close, my hands sliding down his back until they reach his beautifully tight little ass. Our cocks are grinding against each other, and the slip and slide of skin is so glorious it would make me dizzy if the room weren’t already spinning.

I could come just from doing this, but Neville, who has his own agenda, sits up. I grab for him, but he pushes me back down. He stretches forward to the bedside table. He gets a condom and the lube. He rips open the condom’s packet and, with the precise neatness that only comes from lots of practice, slips it on me. He flips open the lube and slathers it over my cock. My eyes go wider as he spreads some more lube inside of himself, his fingers squelching shamelessly.

“Don’t forget what I told you in the lounge,” he says, when everything is slick and ready.  

I clear my throat. “I won’t.”

“Don’t move.”  
  
“I _won’t_.”  
  
He leans down and places a soft kiss on my lips. “You remember everything, don’t you? I love your great big brain.” He gives me a smirk. “And your great big cock—”

He starts sinking down on it. He takes me in one inch at a time, and the feeling is agonizingly good. I want to thrust into that tight wet hole, make him _feel it_ , but I promised to let him drive. He knows what he’s doing, Neville St. Clair. He looks like a doll but he’s so fucking dirty and that’s wonderful. I don’t have to be in control for once, I can lay back and let him—

“Fuck me,” I gasp, as he takes in the last few inches of my cock in one wet plunge. I’m now sheathed in his perfect round ass and it feels gorgeous, enveloped by moist, satiny heat.

Neville starts to move. Slowly at first, his hips undulating in a way that makes his cock bounce so prettily, its plump pink head glossy in the lamplight. I grab for it but he slaps my hand away, stopping his hips in a warning move. I lay still again, contenting myself with watching him.

He’s such a sight to see as he begins to move faster. His face, framed by damp curls, is flushed as rosy as his cock. A fine sheen of sweat is on his cheeks, his belly, his thighs. His skin would taste like salty cream and you want desperately to taste, but you just watch him move still faster. His ass is slapping your thighs, needy cries escaping you as he works himself on your cock. He strokes his own cock as he does it, and that’s so fucking hot you have to focus hard not to come.

Plunging down and pulling back, plunging down and pulling back, plunging and pulling and it’s heat and wet and a pleasure that is spiraling you down and down, the cycle going faster now, his slim body snapping like a whip, eyes burning unearthly blue. You hear him cry out as his climax takes him, he’s shuddering around your cock and suddenly you can’t stand it, you have to sit up and _move_. Your hands grip his hips as you thrust into him deeply, so deep it has to hurt but he’s grinning, yanking you in for the fiercest of kisses, sucking your tongue as you plunder his ass, until finally the heat pulls you all the way down, and you bury your teeth in his throat.

He tastes so good I could cry. Instead I stay still, as the last tremors of my orgasm die away.

Neville makes a little twist with his hips that has me wincing from overstimulation, but then my cock is free. I pull the condom off and throw it in the trashcan near the bed. My fingers tremble as I wipe the sticky off myself with a tissue. I dispose of that and fall back on the bed, trying to get my breath. Nev cuddles up beside me, biting softly at my shoulder. His eyes are leaking a bit, and I’m glad to see that I’m not the only one overwhelmed by what just happened.

“Told you not to move,” he says, after a few minutes.

“Forgot,” I mutter.

“What happened to that great big brain?”  
  
“Drained out my great big cock. I’m stupid now, thanks to you.”  
  
“You’re welcome.”  
  
I meet his wet red eyes, and we both start to giggle.

“So much for my brilliant film career,” I say. “What with the sexual dementia and all.”  
  
“Hoist on your own petard. The petard being your penis.”  
  
I snort and lick the bite mark on his neck. “We should put something on that.”

“No way. It’s the basis of my multi-million-dollar personal injury suit.”

“Brits aren’t litigious.”

“This Brit is. Sophie’s cruise ship is at stake. She asked after you, by the way. Wants to know when you’re coming over again to play Barbies.”

“Oh God.” I scrub hands down my face. “Tell her I’ve left the country.”

I feel him go still. I glance over and see that he’s looking at the ceiling, his face a blank.

“It’s okay,” he says. “I’ll tell her something.”

He bites his lip. “I’m sorry I made you babysit. We would have had more time if I hadn’t.”

I put a finger under his chin, turning him to face me. “Nev, you know I’m fucked up. You have the background for a dozen fucking blog posts by now. I _liked_ playing Barbies with Sophie. What happened this week was my problem, not yours.”

“And now you have to pack,” he says. “Goddamn it, Ford.”

It wells up inside me again, the anger that’s been gnawing at my guts for five days. I don’t like the UK, but I am a citizen. Nobody should have the right to throw me out of my own country. Who the fuck does Mycroft think he is, anyway?

I know the answer to that question, and it only makes me more pissed off.

I pick up my phone from the bedside table, swiping and pressing rapidly.

“Checking messages?” Neville says. “Is the magic gone already?”  
  
“Not hardly.”

It doesn’t take me long to accomplish my goal. Within five minutes, I throw it back on the table and turn to Nev. “There,” I tell him. “Fuck packing.”

“What?”

“I just canceled my plane reservation.”

He blinks at me. “What about Mycroft?”

“Fuck him, too.”

“But Bijan—”

“Will be fine. Mycroft might destroy someone over a tell-all flick, but not because I’m staying in the country to shag you. He _approves_ of me shagging you.”

“Really?” Neville’s brow is furrowed, pouty lips twisted in a confused frown. The expression shouldn’t look cute on him, but it does. He’d look cute covered in blood and steaming viscera.  

I have to kiss him again. I deserve it, since I just defied my sociopathic brother to be with him. He meets my mouth eagerly, but then shatters the mood with a skull-cracking yawn.

“Sorry,” he says. “I haven’t slept much this week. Sexual frustration.”

“Right,” I sigh, settling back.

We’re silent a few minutes. Not an awkward silence: If there’s one thing I can’t plead right now, it’s sexual frustration. I’m feeling tired myself, lying here so snug in this big white bed. Neville cuddled against me, a small but comforting weight at my side.

I stare up at the picture of Audrey Hepburn hung over the bed. I’m fond of her movies, though she wasn’t much of an actress. Put a picture of her next to one of my mum in her prime, and the resemblance would be marked. There’s something to be said for a gamine woman. I’ll have to see about casting Emma Watson in _Dagger._ Nudity is negotiable: I can use a body double. Find exactly the right pair of breasts . . .

I’m just drifting off when Nev speaks softly. “I was thinking about Mycroft.”

“Let me worry about my brother. He won’t do anything to you, trust me.”  
  
“Not that. I was thinking about what you said. How he worries.”

“Yeah, he does that. So?”

Neville sits up, propping his head in his hand. “Moriarty has been targeting anyone Sherlock cares about. Even that psycho couldn’t touch Mycroft, but _you—_ that’s a different story. _”_

“What are you talking about?” __  
  
“Maybe Mycroft doesn’t want Moriarty knowing there’s another Holmes brother.”

I shake my head. “Even if we grant the possibility that Sherlock would give a damn if Moriarty took me out—and that’s a big _if_ —why keep me a secret once Sherlock jumped off the roof?”  
  
“Moriarty didn’t jump. Mycroft didn’t know his plans. John told me about that interrogation after the 007 plane: Moriarty can’t like Mycroft much, either. He can’t touch him, but he can hurt him. Seeing both of his brothers murdered would do more than hurt. It would destroy him.”

Neville reaches out, cupping my face. “You told me he worries about Sherlock. Consider, love, that maybe Mycroft is really fucking worried about you.”

I stare at him. Neville yawns again. “Anyway, it’s something to think about. G’night.”  
  
He curls up like a kitten and is asleep within minutes. But he’s managed to murder sleep for me.

I toss and turn for half an hour, and then I admit defeat and get up. I find my robe and cover my nakedness, slipping my phone into my pocket and heading to the living room.

I dim all the lights so I can see through the big windows. I stare out at the skyline. I let my eyes travel from St. Paul’s to Westminster and back again, as my brain churns and churns.

What did Mycroft say this morning? _It’s better if Sherrinford Holmes stays buried_. I thought he was being cruel, but maybe there’s another explanation. All his actions in the last six months—barring me from the funeral, hiding Sherlock’s return, keeping me from the wedding, tanking my movie, turning me out of England—could be seen in another light.

He wasn’t keeping me away from Sherlock. He was keeping Sherlock away from me. Our baby brother, who with his usual social poise has managed to make the deadliest of mortal enemies.

That doesn’t make sense. Mycroft has never protected me.

Has he?

A Holmes never forgets. I remember that day on the roof. Siger’s seamed, furious face staring at me with such hatred. Such _intent_. I was frozen with it, my rebellion shocked out of me in a moment of pure terror. I couldn’t move, couldn’t think, petrified as a mouse caught by a lion.

But then—

_It was a mistake! Just a momentary weakness. Tell him, Sherrinford!_

Mycroft, red-faced and puffing from running up the stairs, getting between me and our father. He broke Siger’s basilisk stare just long enough for me to recover. To run, and not look back.

All right, that’s one decent moment in 25 years. It doesn’t prove—

_The boy can go to California. But make this clear to him, Violet. Whatever he does in America, he won’t do it with my name. As far as I’m concerned, he does not exist._

Banishment. A cruel thing to do to a teenage boy, but not as cruel as Siger could have been. Why didn’t he send his goons to Australia to drag me back? Why show mercy?

Moving like a sleepwalker, I take my phone out of my pocket.

I tap his icon. He picks up on the first ring, like always. I ask before he can get a word out.

“It was you, wasn’t it? You talked to Siger. He let me go because of you.”

I hear the clink of ice cubes. I know where Mycroft is. Sitting in his wing chair, reading.

After a pause that’s so long I think he’s never going to answer, he does. With his usual calm, as though I’d asked him whether he’s still reading _Mansfield Park_ or has moved on to _Emma_.

“Yes,” he says. “I talked to him.”

“What did you say?”  
  
“Oh, I don’t know. It was so long ago.”  
  
I sink down on the sofa, pinching the bridge of my nose. My eyes are aching.

“It was your idea to banish me to California. To make me change my name.”

“You wanted to go to California.”

“My fucking _name_.”

He says nothing.  
  
“Twenty-five years,” I rasp. “How many phone calls? You never told me. Why?”  
  
He doesn’t answer. But my brother is so eloquent in his silences. I take his meaning very well.

_Father was going to institutionalize you. Because you lied to him, and he believed your lies. Because he hated you. So I talked to him, and I showed him another way._

_He wanted you dead. We both know that. It’s why I kept silent: I couldn’t speak the truth. Anyway, you knew what I’d done, didn’t you? That’s why you kept calling._

Yes, I must have known. Deep down, under the denial and resentment, I did. Someone calmed that terrible rage, someone Siger trusted. Who else could it have been?

Why did Mycroft do it? As contentious as we are now, it was ten times worse back then. I was horrible to him, and he was indifferent to me. But the one time it really mattered, he stood up to Siger. I lost my country and my name, but I kept my life.

“The hell we went through these last six months,” I say. “All of your bullshit, and you were just trying to protect me. You could have told me _that_. Christ! I feel like such an asshole.”  
  
“If I had told you, would you have stayed away?”  
  
“No. I can take care of myself. But I wouldn’t—” 

“No,” Mycroft says. “You can’t.”  
  
“I’m not scared of James Moriarty.”  
  
“What the bloody hell do your feelings have to do with _anything_?” he snaps. “That’s why I said nothing. You’re so arrogant, you probably would have tried to confront him yourself.”

“So I’m supposed to run away? After what he did to Sherlock?”  
  
“Sherlock never wanted you here. Neither did I.”

“Right,” I mutter. “Silly of me, to consider myself a part of this family.”  
  
“Of course you’re our brother. But this isn’t the time for a family reunion.”  
  
“I’m not leaving.”  
  
“Don’t make me—”

“Don’t bring up Bijan. Twenty-five years ago, you saved his life too. You won’t ruin it now.”  
  
“Good God,” he says. “Why are you being so—” Mycroft cuts off, and I hear soft tapping.  “Does your defiance have anything to do with Neville St. Clair’s presence at your hotel?”

I look around wildly. “If you’ve bugged my suite—”

“I’m not interested in the sordid details of your liaison. But there are CCTV cameras near the front and back entrances of 45 Park Lane.” I hear more tapping as he brings up further images with whatever scary app he has on his iPad. “Who was that squat little man with St. Clair?”

“His brother.”  
  
“That’s odd.”  
  
“Not really. David is an interfering cock just like you.” I pick up the white keycard and tap it on the table. “Neville and I have come to a meeting of the minds. Also the groins. I can’t leave.”  
  
“You can have St. Clair anywhere. Take him to Paris.”  
  
“I’m bored with Paris.”  
  
Mycroft is speaking through clenched teeth. “Take him to Los Angeles, then.”  
  
“It’s awards season in LA. Everything is fucking insane—”

“YOU CAN’T STAY IN LONDON, SHERRINFORD.” Mycroft yells so loud his voice cracks.

For a moment, I’m shocked into silence. My brother never sounds like that. Nervous like that, not since we were kids. I hear the rattle of ice as he takes a long drink of whiskey.

“Mycroft,” I whisper. “What the hell is going on?”  
  
“I don’t know what you’re—”

“ _Don’t lie to me._ Something has happened, hasn’t it? You’re scared shitless.”

It goes so quiet on the other end, I can’t even hear him breathing. I sigh and try again. “Mikey, this is me. I’m not meddling, I’m worried. I do that too, you know.”

A pause, then more tapping. “I’m sending you something,” he says.

“This better not be another picture of your cats.”

I look at my incoming messages. In the body of the message is nothing but a link. I open it.

The link leads to a thread at _Reddit_. The initial post was put up only a few hours ago, but it already has thousands of replies. I scan the brief text of the post and look at the attached pics.  
  
I know the boy in the picture. There’s no mistaking those black eyes. Even when Moriarty was playing the jolly Storyteller on CBBC, his eyes still looked dead. The fingerprint pictures are less interesting, though the post explains their significance. What arrests me is the last image.

I’m not squeamish, but the picture would make anyone regret eating dinner. It shows a middle-aged woman with familiar black eyes. She was pretty once, and might have been attractive still, except for what has been done to her. She’s just a head on a ragged stump of a neck. There are ligature marks on her throat, as if she’d been hung before she was decapitated. Her eyes are red with hemorrhaging, glazed with death, but their expression of mortal horror can still be read.

The post identified the woman, but I didn’t need the help. After seeing the first picture, I would have known who this is. I don’t need the post to tell me who did this.

Moriarty did it. He strangled his mother and cut her head off. Then he put it on the TV stand so it would shock whoever came through the door. _Gotcha!_ Like it was a fucking joke.

I have to try a couple of times to speak. “Nine months ago, when that fucking freakshow was on trial, why didn’t this come up? Why the hell did you let him walk?”  
  
“Contrary to what you and Sherlock might believe, I am not omnipotent. I found out about this two hours ago, when Julia sent me the link. John Watson posted it a few minutes before 6 PM.”  
  
“John? How did he—”

“I don’t know yet. But the fact that the post came from him is unmistakable. He uploaded everything from his computer.” Mycroft sounds peevish. “It’s as if he wants to get into trouble.”

“Trouble? He’s not the one making tablescapes with his mum’s head. Good for John.”  
  
“This _isn’t_ good for him. The post has already gone viral. It’s at _Reddit_ , and _Gawker_ , and _The Huffington Post_. My sources tell me _The Guardian_ is preparing a special report—”

“Ha! Let Moriarty try to be an actor now. It’s hard to win a BAFTA when you’re in Portlaoise Prison wearing an orange jumpsuit. Do the Irish use orange jumpsuits? I’ll have to Google it.”

Mycroft sighs. “What makes you think he’ll be imprisoned?”

 _“He killed his mother.”_  
  
“Last March he was found in the Tower wearing the crown jewels. You know how that turned out. If you read the _Reddit_ thread, you’ll see there’s considerable skepticism about the picture’s authenticity. Even if it’s proven real, many people don’t believe it’s Richard Brook’s mother.”  
  
“Richard Brook is dead. His brother stole his name. John posted the damn fingerprints.”

“Of course there will be an investigation. But the wheels of justice turn slowly. While they do, any number of things could happen. Though Jools Siviter’s reaction concerns me, it’s Moriarty I’m truly uneasy about. That he will try to kill John is a certainty.”

“Get John to a safehouse, then. Anyway, couldn’t this be some plot he and Sherlock cooked up? Are they even still in the country?”  
  
“There’s been no movement at 221-B. I’m not sure Sherlock has anything to do with the post: This kind of aggressiveness isn’t his style. I believe John acted alone. The lack of trust between him and Sherlock is worrisome.”

“We’ll get them couples’ counseling when this is over. First, you need to get them the fuck out of Dodge. I could take them back to LA, if you want. I have about a hundred spare bedrooms.”  
  
“You assume that John and Sherlock are the only targets. I have no assurance that this is true. Moriarty possesses one of the most devious minds I’ve ever encountered. He circumvents like a serpent. He might choose another victim first. That’s why I want you to go home. So far, Jools Siviter seems to have forgotten your existence, but all it would take is one chance remark of his to set Moriarty on your trail. If it isn’t you he targets, it could be Nero. Or Neville St. Clair.”

When I repeat the name, my mouth is dry as a bone. “Neville? He hasn’t—”

“He’s written more than half of the articles condemning Moriarty. For the last three months, he’s been John’s most stalwart support. Unlike John, St. Clair has no combat training, and his promiscuity makes him accessible. He’s a very tempting target: Could you really not see that?”

I look at the bedroom door. Behind it, Nev is sleeping like a baby. I have an overwhelming urge to get up and check on him, but I stifle it. I’ve indulged my impulses enough for one night.

I lean forward on the sofa. I’m not sure which is worse, the pounding in my temples or the roiling in my gut. I close my eyes, but it doesn’t help. All I can see is Katherine Moriarty’s severed head, her tortured stare. As the awful image dances before my mind’s eye, it shifts. I see John’s head, then Sherlock’s. Then (and I feel myself start to shake) little Nero’s.  
  
Last of all, I see Neville’s. His slender white neck is a ragged stump crisscrossed with rope burns. His blue eyes, mottled with black-red hemorrhages, stare at me hopelessly.

I put my head between my knees and try to take deep breaths, as the room spins sickeningly. I hear Mycroft’s voice squawking from the phone. “Sherrinford? Are you—”

“Shut up,” I plead. “For God’s sake. Just shut up for a second, would you?”  
  
He shuts up. I take more breaths. Slowly, I find my balance and sit up.

My hand hurts. I look at it and realize I’ve been clutching the keycard so hard it’s left an imprint in my palm. I stare at the card like I’m looking at a tiny movie screen. I see the images clearly.

Storytelling isn’t easy. You have to draft, re-draft, edit, re-edit. But once in a while, something comes to you fully formed. Like a good fairy sprinkled gold dust on your subconscious, you see the whole scenario in brilliant Technicolor. That’s what’s happening to me now.

It’s not a film I’m seeing. This isn’t any story that can ever be told. But it has to be performed. Just once, for a very special audience. An audience of one.

In this moment, I see how it can be done. What _must_ be done. I always knew it was so, but I never realized the part I would have to play in it. Now I do. I owe Sherlock that much. I owe Mycroft, too. The realization should frighten me, but it doesn’t. The most marvelous calm is descending. A cold, crystalline feeling, like breathing pure and frigid air.

My father must have felt like this all the time.

“You’re right,” I say. “We can’t wait for justice. We have to do it ourselves.”  
  
“What are you talking about?”  
  
“We’re going to kill him. Jim Moriarty is going to die. It will be—cinematic.”

Mycroft has quite lot to say to this, but I don’t hear. Not immediately. All I hear are the words in my head. Over and over, like dialogue from a thrilling trailer. 

_You think you’re the Storyteller, Jim? We’ll see about that. We will just see_.

 

**TO BE CONTINUED**


End file.
